Late Checkout

by Carol J. Perry

  “I remember him,” she said. “Sports, right?”

  “Uh-huh. Scott and I talked about some of the other old WICH-TV shows too. We remembered Katie the Clown and Ranger Rob.”

  “Of course. And you always loved watching Professor Mercury and his Magical Science Circus.”

  “Oh, he was amazing,” I remembered, smiling, “and you used to let me mess up the kitchen doing experiments. There was a lot more local programing for kids back then, wasn’t there? Maybe we could come up with an idea for a new kid show.”

  “Of course they have Nickelodeon and the Disney Channel now.” She pulled the Buick into her reserved spot behind the library. “But I’ll just bet we could come up with a good one if we put our heads together.”

  “Yep. We sure could.” I pulled down the visor mirror to check my hair. Bad move. I saw the flashing lights and swirling colors that always precede a vision. My immediate instinct was to push the visor back up. Too late. The image filled the oblong space.

  A row of books was lined up on a shelf. I squinted, leaning closer to the mirror. What’s that thing sticking out underneath?

  The vision obliged, as they sometimes do, with a zoom-lens kind of close-up. It was a shoe. A man’s shiny black shoe. A man’s shiny black shoe with a maroon ribbed dress sock on the foot wearing it.

  Then the picture was gone and all there was in the mirror was a confused redhead.

  Chapter 3

  The whole mirror episode was over so quickly I was sure my aunt hadn’t noticed that anything unusual had just happened.

  “Come along, dear,” Aunt Ibby said. “There’ll be a little bit of paperwork for you to fill out.”

  “Coming.” I slid out of the passenger seat and joined her, still thinking of the vision and remembering what Phil Archer had told me about Larry Laraby. “His wife found him on the floor,” he’d said. “With books all around him.”

  I’ve learned that the visions can show things from the past, the present, and even the future. Did I just see Larry Laraby’s foot as he lay dead on the floor among his books? I tried to shake the thought away.

  We entered the old building via the side entrance, stepping aside as a parade of about fifteen chattering preteens tumbled through the door and out into the parking lot. “Musical story time,” my aunt said. “Three-thirty to four-thirty. Middle school kids. Enthusiastic bunch.”

  I love the smell of the library. Every time I enter one I take a deep breath. This time was no different. I followed my aunt to the main desk, breathing in the lovely scents of paper and bindings and ink and floor polish and pencil shavings and new magazines and old paperbacks, all the while trying to focus on volunteer work instead of on a dead man’s foot.

  My aunt introduced me to the new librarian, Tyler Dickson. “This was Tyler’s first full day working here alone,” Aunt Ibby said as I shook the woman’s hand. “I’m sure everything went smoothly?” It was a statement, phrased as a question.

  Tyler smiled, flashing great dimples. “I had an absolutely wonderful day,” she said. “I was never rushed—of course Friday is a slow day anyway—but everyone was so kind and understanding about my being new here. I’m going to love this job.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Aunt Ibby said. “Maralee will be volunteering here part time so you’ll soon get to know one another.” Tyler gave a little wave, said, “Nice to meet you,” and headed for the checkout desk while my aunt pulled a booklet and several sheets of paper from a file cabinet and handed them to me. “Just fill these out, Maralee, then tell me more about this project of Scott’s we’ll be working on.”

  “He’s just looking for information on Larry Laraby, as far as I know. The other names, like Katie the Clown and Ranger Rob, just popped up in conversation. But Scott said that Mr. Doan is planning an anniversary celebration featuring the old-timers.”

  She caught on right away. “So you’d like to work on doing a kind of ‘what ever happened to’ piece for one of your investigative reports.”

  “Exactly.” I pulled a pen from my purse and began filling out the volunteer application. Name, address, birth date, Social Security number, education, previous volunteer experience, references, skills, driver’s license . . . I smiled as I wrote down Buffy Doan’s name as a reference—why not? She was the main reason I was here. My previous volunteer experience included spending time along with Johnny visiting patients at VA hospitals. (A lot of those great guys and gals are NASCAR fans.) I’ve put in quite a few volunteer hours at animal shelters too, both in Salem and Florida, and I spent a summer once volunteering as property manager for the acting division of Salem’s Tabitha Trumbull Academy of the Arts.

  My aunt watched, obviously amused, as I carefully wrote down each answer. “You don’t have to fuss with that, you know Maralee. You’ve got the job. I guarantee it.”

  I answered the last question—“How did you hear about this position?”—by writing my aunt’s name, then signing, dating, and handing the pages to her. “Anything worth doing is worth doing well,” I said, repeating one of her many favorite sayings. “Remember?” I returned the pen to my purse, along with the slim Handbook for Library Volunteers. “Okay. Where do I start?”

  “First, you’ll need an official ID,” she said. “It’s just a temporary one for now, but I’ll order the real one for you right away.” She pulled a round paper badge from her top drawer. It was marked “volunteer” and had a space for my name. She used a black marker, printed Maralee Barrett in neat block letters, removed the sticky back, and handed it to me. “Wear it proudly,” she said as I positioned it on my turtleneck. “Now, shelving the returned books is always a good place to begin.” She gestured toward a wheeled wire basket filled to overflowing with books. “I know you’re familiar with the Dewey decimal system.”

  I am. Not too many home libraries are arranged according to Dewey, but ours is. The book on top of the pile was Women in the Civil War, so pushing the cart toward the 900s (history, geography), I began my first day as a library volunteer.

  I fell into a sort of rhythm, wheeling the cart up and down the aisles, putting each book in its proper place. I found myself studying the bottom row of books in every aisle, as though I expected to see a foot sticking out from under a bookcase. Before long the wire cart was empty. I returned to the front desk, proud of myself for finishing so quickly.

  My aunt had been busy too. She greeted me by waving a sheet of copy paper in my direction. “Maralee,” she whispered, using her librarian voice. “See what I’ve found.”

  I hurried around the desk and stood behind her chair. “Look at this,” she said. “I’ve located Ranger Rob for you. His real name is Robert Oberlin and he still lives in the area. Has a horse stable over in Rockport.”

  “That was fast.” I peered at the paper. “Is that him?” I pointed to a blurred newspaper photo.

  “That’s what the caption says. Looks like he’s put on a few pounds over the years, doesn’t it?”

  “That doesn’t look like the skinny young cowboy with the fringed shirt and tight jeans I remember,” I said. “Played a guitar too, didn’t he?”

  She nodded. “He did. And didn’t he have a sidekick? Little guy? He wore a big white cowboy hat and had a handlebar mustache.”

  “Cactus,” I said. “His name was Cactus. Maybe we can find him too. This could turn out to be fun.”

  “It could.” She pointed to another cart full of books. “But right now, you have work to do.”

  “You’re right.” I grasped the handle, picked up the book on top of the pile—Cats: Antics and Attitudes. I smiled, thought of O’Ryan, and headed for the 590 shelves. The rest of the full cart was easy to shelve too and I discovered that even though I was “working,” I didn’t have to give this job my full attention. My mind raced as I considered various ways I might put together an investigative report on WICH-TV’s old-time talent.

  I’d reached the bottom of the cart and had only one item left. It was a notebook with handwritten
lined pages. It appeared to be a journal about gardening and bore no number on its spine or cover.

  I returned to the desk and showed the notebook to my aunt. “Sorry,” I said. “I couldn’t figure this one out.”

  “No wonder. It doesn’t belong there.” She opened the slim book. “It’s marked on the inside cover, see?” She pointed to the stairway behind her. “It goes up there. In the stacks. Better hurry. Stacks close in a few minutes. Tyler’s already starting to check customers out.”

  I glanced at the clock. Children’s room, reference area, and stacks always close fifteen minutes before the main desk does. I made a face. I don’t like the stacks. Even when I was in high school and college, I never went up there alone. When I was around six, I wandered away from my aunt and climbed those stairs. “The stacks” refers to a book storage area, away from the general reading space. The bookcases up there aren’t solid, wooden structures like the ones downstairs. There are no plants or teddy bears or autographed pictures of famous authors placed here and there to make it friendly. The unpainted metal shelves are on wheels so they can be moved around. I imagined that rats or snakes could crawl out from the space underneath the bottom shelves where those ugly black wheels were. It’s been improved since I was six, with a few blonde wood chairs and tables and much better lighting, but back then it was dark and spooky and the narrow aisles with tall steel shelves towered over me. I was terrified until Aunt Ibby heard my cries and rescued me.

  She recognized the pouty face. “Go along now. It belongs in a vertical file marked Salem Gardens. It’s in the 580 section.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Go along.”

  So, reluctantly, I did. I tucked the notebook under my arm and trudged toward the staircase. I glanced back to see if she was watching me. She was.

  Oh, get over yourself. You’re a big girl. Paste on a fake smile and climb right up there!

  Shoulders back, head up, eyes front, I ran up the stairs. Looked for the numbers at the ends of the tall steel shelves. 580-Plants. I filed the notebook properly.

  See? This isn’t so bad.

  And it wasn’t. Right up until I passed the 790-Sports aisle on my way back to the stairs and saw the foot sticking out from under the bottom shelf right beside the wheels. I very nearly screamed aloud, just as my lost, frightened six-year-old-self had cried out all those years ago. I clapped a hand over my mouth. This wasn’t a vision in a car mirror. The foot was real. It wore a dark blue athletic shoe and a grimy white sock. It was a small shoe. Dear God, don’t let it be an injured child. Very slowly, deliberately, I forced myself to walk all the way to the end of the aisle so that I could see the other side of that long, dimly lighted row of shelves—so that I could see the rest of whoever that foot belonged to.

  Even before I saw the man—because surely it was a man and not a child—I saw the jumble of books. The narrow aisle was strewn with them. Some lay open, their pages crumpled, even torn. Some sprawled, tentlike, bent leaves splayed out on the gray floor while ragged-edged sheets of printed words, ripped from cast-aside volumes, littered the confined space from end to end. I hardly dared breathe.

  Phil Archer’s words rang once more in my mind. “There was poor Larry,” he’d said. “Dead on the floor, with his books scattered all around him.”

  The man was spread-eagled, head propped at an unnatural angle against an old wooden card catalog file cabinet. His face was partly obscured by long gray hair and one leg was hidden from the knee down by metal shelving. I didn’t attempt to move any closer. He was obviously dead. I backed away, rounding the corner to the aisle where the reproachful foot still protruded. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling once again all of the horror, the fear, the need to escape from this dark scary place that six-year old-Maralee Kowalski had felt all those many years ago.

  I found myself shaking, somehow sitting upright in one of the blonde wood study chairs as I tried to will Phil Archer’s words away. That was then. This is now. This isn’t a vision. It isn’t even the same shoe. That poor soul isn’t Larry Laraby. Get out of here and call 911!

  Then, instinctively observing long-established library etiquette, I walked quickly, but quietly, down the stairs while calling 911 on my cell.

  Chapter 4

  My aunt, as always, remained calm as I whispered my startling message, including the fact that I’d already called 911. “I’m sure the man is dead,” I stammered, trying hard to stay composed. “He’s just lying there with his eyes open among all those books, not seeing anything.” She nodded, and within what seemed like seconds, she’d blocked the stairway leading to the stacks with a velvet rope and a discreet “no admittance” sign.

  By then I’d called Pete. He answered on the first ring. “Lee, I saw your name on the 911 call,” he said. “What’s going on over there? Dispatcher says there’s someone on the floor unresponsive. EMTs and a couple of cruisers are on the way. I’m following because—well, because you’re there. You okay?”

  “Yes. Sure. I’m fine,” I said, not at all sure that I really was. “There’s a man on the floor up in the stacks. He looks dead. I didn’t touch him. And there were books all over the place. We’ve blocked off the stairs. Is there anything else we should do before you get here? People are starting to check out. We close at five.”

  “About how many people are in there now?”

  I looked around. “I’m at the front desk. The children’s section and reference are already closed along with the stacks. I see eight library patrons, and of course there’s Aunt Ibby and the new librarian Tyler Dickson and me. Oh, Dave Benson, the night security guard, just came in the front door. So there’re a dozen of us in here right now.”

  “We’re almost there,” he said. “Ask your aunt to try to slow down the checkout process, will you? We’ll want to ask questions. What are you doing there? Did you recognize the guy?”

  “I was here signing up to volunteer my spare time,” I said. I whispered Pete’s request to my aunt and she moved over to the nearby checkout desk and spoke a few words to Tyler. “I didn’t get close enough to recognize the—uh—the deceased,” I told him. “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. We’re pulling up out front. I’ll be right in.”

  I heard the wail of sirens from outside. I knew that a 911 call like mine would result in the arrival of an assortment of first responders. EMTs, Salem fire department paramedics, and police officers would parade through the library and up the stairs to the stacks. If, and when, the victim turned out to be beyond help—which I was pretty sure would be the case this time—the EMTs and SFD people would soon leave and the medical examiner would be called. Then, if the death seemed to be an “unnatural” one, if it appeared that a crime had taken place, the police would take over and the CSI team would arrive with all of their technical expertise.

  Actually, that was just about the way it all played out.

  The EMTs were first through the door, followed by three uniformed officers, causing quite a commotion among the few library patrons, who until then had no idea that anything was amiss. One of the uniforms led the EMTs upstairs, while another stood next to my aunt and politely checked IDs, took contact information from each person, then escorted them, one by one, to the front door, locking it after each one exited the building. The third officer headed down the corridor toward the side door. Pete had arrived just behind the paramedics, watching as they followed the EMTs up the stairs. He spoke to the officer and my aunt briefly, paused at the checkout desk where Tyler had remained, then walked over to where I stood. I’d posted myself at the foot of the stairs, replacing the velvet rope as each group passed. I was so happy and relieved to see him that I almost cried.

  Pete stood as close to me as he possibly could without tipping off everyone in the room that he and I shared a bed on a regular basis and I resisted an almost overwhelming urge to bury my face on his shoulder. He smelled even better than the library. “How’re you holding up, babe?” he murmured. “Want to sit down and tell me what happened here?” He ge
stured to a nearby cluster of four matching armchairs.

  I nodded. “I’m okay. It’s been a bad day.” I sat facing him as Dave Benson, the tall, white-haired nighttime guard took over the velvet rope duty.

  Pete pulled a worn brown leather notebook and a stubby pencil from an inside pocket. “You told the 911 operator you’d found an unresponsive male on the floor,” he prompted, using what I call his “cop voice.”

  “Unresponsive was her word, not mine,” I said. “I didn’t touch him. I’m sure I said something like ‘he’s not moving. ’”

  “Right. Go ahead. Describe what you saw.”

  “I was filing a returned book up in the stacks.” I waved a hand in the general direction of “up.” “On my way back I passed the sports section and saw a foot sticking out from under one of the tall steel shelving units they use up there.”

  “Sticking out?”

  “Yeah. Like the person was on the floor on the opposite side with just one leg poked underneath. There are books lined up on both sides all the way up so there’s no way to see into the next aisle. The shoe looked small. I was afraid a child might be hurt up there.”

  “So you walked around and looked?”

  “Well, of course I did.” Sometimes Pete’s attention to every little detail can be exasperating, but that’s the way cops work. “The shoe was near the end of a section that backs up to a wall. I walked to the entrance of the aisle and looked down to where he was lying on the floor.”

  “You mean the shoe with a foot in it?” He glanced up from the notebook. “Not just a shoe.”

  I sighed, nodded again. “That’s when I saw the man and all the books on the floor.”

  “Books on the floor?” He put down his pencil. “Did you tell the 911 dispatcher that? About books on the floor?”

  “I don’t think so. But anyway there were—there are—books scattered around. Torn, messed up, thrown all over the aisle, pages ripped out. What a mess. I didn’t touch anything,” I said, trying to anticipate the next question.