Late Checkout

by Carol J. Perry

  “Was it a Honus Wagner card?”

  “Sure. Most expensive baseball card in the world. Back then, anyway.”

  “And the armed guard was you?”

  “Not at first. He had a guy who already had the suit. An old TV actor who used to play a traffic cop on some kids’ show. Anyway,” Dave continued, “the guy started putting on weight so Laraby bought the suit and looked around for somebody tall and thin to wear it. He hired me.”

  “I’ll bet the locked case and armed guard worked well for him. That was a clever promotional gimmick.”

  “Sure did. Got my picture in newspapers all over the country posing with the world’s most expensive baseball card.”

  “Was it real? The card?”

  “Laraby always swore it was. I believed it.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “Well, I have to get to work. Nice talking with you, Dave. By the way, Marty McCarthy sends her regards.”

  Again the nice smile. “Marty McCarthy. You know, when I worked on the electronics at WICH-TV back in the eighties, I had a wicked crush on her.”

  “You worked at WICH-TV?” That was a surprise.

  “Sure. That’s how I met Willie. He used to work there too.”

  “Interesting,” I said again. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you here daytimes.”

  “At least until they catch that killer,” he said, no longer smiling.

  I walked back to the reference desk, rolled up the sleeves of my white blouse, and grasped the handle of the first cart. I could tell at a glance that although the library corps team had made a good-faith attempt to organize the returns so that they could be shelved in some sort of logical order, they hadn’t been completely successful. There were mysteries mixed in with travel, antiques alongside juvenile board books, even a couple of CDs in the mix.

  There seemed to be more adult fiction titles than anything else, so I began there. The fiction books are generally shelved alphabetically by the author’s last name. After about twenty minutes I had cart number one about half empty and moved on to the random selection remaining. There were a few YA fiction books, one copy of Winnie-the-Pooh. The rest were nonfiction books belonging in various sections, but at least the cart was lighter and I moved quickly from antiques to biography to hobbies to World War I. I finished up in the children’s section, helped myself to a mini Snickers bar from the trick or treat bowl, returned the empty cart to its proper place, and grasped the handle of cart number two.

  By this time I’d found my rhythm. Sorting as I moved along, placing books on the shelves according to category and number, I felt as though I was on automatic pilot. Resisting the persistent urge to hum as I worked—after all this was a library—I gathered speed. Finishing cart number two was a piece of cake—until I found a book destined for the stacks. Oh well, I knew sooner or later I’d have to do it. I just wished it could have been later. Would it be so awful if I asked Dave to come up there with me? I answered my own question. Yes. It would be awful. I parked the cart, picked up the book and walked toward the stairway, eyes straight ahead. I glanced at the spine where the number, the author’s last name, and the title would be. I’d find the shelf, shove the book into its place, and zoom right back down those stairs.

  “Number seven-ninety,” I said to myself as I began climbing the stairs “Sports. Author’s name—Kahn.” I knew in an instant what I held in my hand. The third step was as far as I got. I turned around.

  Chapter 34

  Wordlessly, I laid the book on my aunt’s desk. She gasped, then frowned. “The Boys of Summer,” she said. “The missing book. Where did you get it?” I pointed to the abandoned cart at the foot of the stairs leading up to the stacks.

  “There,” I whispered. “It was in the returns cart.”

  “How can that be? Someone returned it?”

  I knew her questions were rhetorical. Which was good, because I had no answers. I just stood there and stared at the book. She did the same. A woman with a small girl in tow approached the desk and my aunt looked up with her usual welcoming smile, at the same time placing a yellow flyer advertising the Monday morning writers’ group meeting on top of The Boys of Summer. “May I help you?”

  “I’m looking for a book on how to make Halloween costumes.” The woman nodded toward the child. “Lilly wants to be an astronaut.” She patted Lilly’s blonde curls. “I mean she really wants to be one.”

  “There’s a special display on costumes just inside the entrance to the children’s area.” Aunt Ibby pointed the way, then, placing her hand over the yellow paper, turned to me. “Shall I call the police or do you want to call Pete?” she whispered.

  “I’ll call Pete,” I said. “Shouldn’t we put it into a plastic bag or something? Fingerprints.”

  “There are probably hundreds of prints on it by now. I’ll just slide it into the drawer here.” With the paper tucked around the edges of the book, she pushed it into the top desk drawer. “Run out to the break room, will you dear? Get the key ring from my purse in my cubby. I think I’d better lock this away.”

  I did as she asked and returned to the empty break room. I pulled Aunt Ibby’s practical brown Etienne Aig-ner bag from the cubby marked with her name, and noticed that a brightly printed Vera Bradley was in Tyler Dickson’s space. Dave had left the room and I realized that Tyler must have arrived while I was shelving books. I pulled the keyring from my aunt’s bag.

  Anybody on the staff can walk in here anytime and take things from our handbags. The thought was disturbing. It had never occurred to me before. We’ve always trusted each other. We’ve trusted our security cameras. We’ve trusted our emergency exit and no admittance and staff only signs. Had Wee Willie Wallace somehow changed everything?

  I replaced the bag, left the room, and called Pete.

  Funny. He asked the same question Aunt Ibby had. “Somebody returned it?”

  “Looks that way. The library corps kids emptied both book drops sometime yesterday. Apparently, it was in one of them.”

  “When were they emptied last? Don’t they usually do it every day?”

  “Yes, usually. But in all the commotion over the weekend, nobody thought to empty the outdoor drops.”

  “Okay. Where is the book now?”

  “It’s in the top drawer of Aunt Ibby’s desk. She’s just about to lock it up.”

  “I’ll be right along to get it. I guess there aren’t any cameras on the book drops?”

  “Sorry, no,” I said. “But wait a minute. There was a picture on the news showing that old woman standing on the wheelchair ramp near the side door. That’s where the drop is. I thought at the time it must have been taken from another building.”

  “You’re right. We obtained some footage from that big house next door. Private residence.”

  “Gee, they probably film everybody who uses that door,” I said, walking toward the reference desk, realizing how little privacy there is in the world these days.

  “I’m on my way,” he said. “Keep that drawer locked.”

  I handed my aunt her key ring. “Pete’s on his way.”

  She locked the drawer, then handed the keys to me. “Do you mind putting them back? I feel as though I should stay right here with the book.”

  “No problem,” I said, then paused. “Did it ever occur to you that practically anybody can walk into the break room and riffle through our purses?”

  She arched one eyebrow. “We’ve never had any such problem.”

  We’ve never found a dead man in the stacks before either.

  The break room was still empty when I put the keys back into her purse. When I returned Pete was already at the desk, speaking in low-toned cop voice with my aunt and Tyler Dickson. I joined them. Pete acknowledged me with a nod and continued. “We’ll be checking the book for prints and DNA but since it’s passed through a lot of hands before Lee recognized it, it may not tell us much.” He pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and placed what I’d come to recognize as an evid
ence bag on the desk. “Now Ms. Russell, if you’ll open the drawer, then step away, I’ll come around to your side and remove the book.”

  Aunt Ibby followed his directions and stood between Tyler and me while Pete slipped on the gloves, frowned slightly when he saw the yellow paper, then moved it aside. The book was face-up, a plain-looking volume with a black front and red spine. In one quick motion he lifted the book, slipped it into the open evidence bag, and sealed it. “Maybe this’ll tell us something,” he said.

  “If a book is worth killing someone over, why would anyone toss it into a book drop?” I asked, thinking out loud.

  Tyler spoke up. “Maybe it wasn’t worth it,” she said. “Maybe it was the wrong book!”

  “Maybe it wasn’t the book at all.” My aunt, with wise-old-owl face in place, spoke quietly. “Maybe there was something important in the book. I remember reading about a conservation technician at Brown University who found an original engraving by Paul Revere in an old book on medicine!”

  “I believe it,” Tyler said. “People use the darndest things for bookmarks. I once found a strip of bacon in a library book.”

  We all laughed at that, but the idea that the book might have contained something valuable made a lot of sense. It might explain the opened books on the floor in the stacks, It could explain the books on the floor around poor dead Larry Laraby too.

  Pete tucked the evidence bag under his arm. “Thank you, ladies, for calling this to our attention. It could be important. Is there any way to figure out which book drop it came from?”

  “Maybe,” Tyler said. “I divided the library corps kids into two teams. Three kids per team. They each emptied one of the drops. They each filled a book cart.”

  “There’re still some books in the second cart,” I said. “That’s where The Boys of Summer was. If anybody remembers any of the titles that are still in the cart, that person would know which drop they emptied.”

  “I’m on it,” Tyler said. “I’ll text all six of the kids and tell them to get back to me right away.”

  “I’ll give you a list of those books,” I said. “So long, Pete. Talk to you later.”

  “Later,” he said and started for the front door. He stopped short when the buzzer shrieked, indicating that some culprit was sneaking off with an unchecked-out book. The look on his face was the same as everyone else’s when the tattler sounds off, in a library or a department store. Confused, guilty, and embarrassed. My aunt smilingly waved him ahead. He waved back, and hurried outside. Tyler went back to the main desk and got busy texting while I pulled the remaining dozen or so books from the wire basket, writing down the names on the back of one of the yellow sheets. Aunt Ibby stayed at her desk, concentrating on the computer there, fingers flying over the keys.

  Tyler was the first of us to come up with an answer to Pete’s question. The books in the second cart had come from the side door drop. No doubt about it. The first girl Tyler had texted remembered seeing two of the titles I’d listed. 18 Things by Jamie Ayres, and Chainbreaker by Tara Sim, both teen favorites. I called Pete right away.

  “Thanks, babe,” he said. “That was fast.”

  “Of course,” I said. “You want to know anything about books, ask a librarian.”

  “I’ll remember that. We’ll be taking a closer look at those videos from the building next door too. Are you going to try to make it through the Halloween crowd to the TV station later today, or are you going to stay put? I had to use the siren to get through ’em to get back here.”

  “It’s pretty crazy out there, isn’t it? But everybody seems to be having a good time. I’ll call Rhonda and see if they need me, otherwise I can work from here.”

  “Good idea. Probably won’t see you tonight,” he said. “Chief wants us on call in case of the bad kind of Halloween craziness.”

  “Be careful out there,” I said. “I love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  I returned my attention to my aunt, still focused on the computer’s screen. “Aunt Ibby,” I whispered. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  She looked up. “I am if you’re thinking about what extremely valuable item Larry Laraby might have had that would fit between the pages of a hardcover book.”

  “That’s what I thought.” I leaned over her shoulder, peering at the screen. “Looking for Honus Wagner cards?”

  “Yes I am. What if Laraby’s widow didn’t inherit it? What if it’s been stuck in a book all these years?”

  “Dave told me he believed it was real,” I said. “I wonder if Rob Oberlin thought so too.”

  “If it is real—wherever it is—it can be worth more than a million dollars,” my aunt said. She shut down her computer and stood up. “Is Dave still in the building?”

  “He’s on day duty. The library board thinks seeing the uniform makes people feel safer.” I glanced around the room. “There he is. Right by the front door.”

  “I’ll see if Dave knows where Larry Laraby kept that card when he was between collectibles shows. You call Rob Oberlin and see what he says about it.” I could tell she was excited. “Let’s look for a copy of that picture Sharon Stewart is missing too. What do you bet the book in her father’s hand was The Boys of Summer?” She hurried toward where Dave stood, his expression serious as he held the door open for the departing future astronaut Lilly and her mom.

  I called the station and told Rhonda that I could work from the library instead of braving the traffic unless they needed me. “No problem,” she said. “Howie’s here.” Good. The more face time Howie gets, the quicker I’ll get my job back.

  I tapped “Double R Riding Stable” into my phone and pulled up Rob’s number. I recognized the hearty “Ranger Rob” voice when he answered. “Hello, Mr. Oberlin,” I said. “Lee Barrett here.” I paused, adding, “from WICH-TV.”

  “Oh, yes. Ms. Barrett. Do you have any dates set yet for the anniversary shows? I’m looking forward to it. Talked to Agnes about it too.”

  “I’m sure we’ll have the details nailed down soon.” I promised. “Just now I’m gathering information on another WICH-TV alum—Larry Laraby. About the collectibles shows he did. I’m fascinated with that clever display of the world’s most expensive baseball card.”

  “Yep. With the armed guard standing next to it.” His laugh was genuine. “He was quite a showman, Larry was.”

  “Do you think the card was the real thing? A real Honus Wagner?” I waited for his response.

  “You know, I went back and forth on that for a long time,” he said. “It was in one of those plastic cases they use to keep the cards flat and clean. Then it was on a little plastic stand inside the glass case with a spotlight on it. It looked real important, you know? He always swore that it was the real McCoy. But, like I said, he was a showman—and a salesman. Didn’t always tell the truth.”

  “I talked to Dave Benson.” I told him. “He was the guard after you left. He says he thinks it was real.”

  “I thought it might be at first, but then when we were packing up after closing down a show one night, I saw what he did with it when it was out of the glass case.”

  “What was that? What did he do with it?”

  He laughed again. “He just took it and shoved it into a book he was reading. He used the darned thing for a bookmark. Nope. It wasn’t real.”

  Chapter 35

  I could hardly wait to report to my aunt—and to hear what Dave had to say about the bookmark idea. I thanked Rob, promised once again to stay in touch about the anniversary show arrangements, and looked across the long room to where the two were still in conversation. I thought about the photo albums, which I’d last seen in Aunt Ibby’s kitchen. We’d only studied the first one and hadn’t examined the second one at all. My first instinct was to jump into my car and rush home to get them—to see if I could find a duplicate to the stolen snapshot—then I remembered the Halloween traffic and quickly dismissed that idea.

  Aunt Ibby walked back to the desk and
Dave resumed his erect posture and solemn expression. She sat beside me. “Well?” We spoke in unison, then laughed. (Softly, of course.)

  “You go first,” she said. “What did Rob say about the card? Real or fake?”

  “Fake,” I said.

  “I’m surprised.” She frowned. “Dave is sure it was real. What’s Rob’s reasoning?”

  I repeated what Rob had said about Larry Laraby using the so-called “most expensive baseball card in the world” as a bookmark.

  This brought another soft laugh. “Same reason,” she said. “Entirely different conclusion. Dave says that Larry told him that the safest way to transport the card was to treat it as if it was just a common cigarette-package premium. That way, he figured, no one would try to steal it.”

  “Makes a certain amount of sense, I suppose.”

  “Dave agrees with Rob’s story about the card being used as a bookmark though,” she said. “He thinks that was part of Larry’s plan to make it look unimportant. So it may very well have been stuck there within the pages of the book for all these years.”

  “I think we’re right,” I said. “I wish we had those albums here. I’m dying to get a good close look at every picture to see if there are any more of Larry Laraby holding the Kahn book.”

  “Do you think we should tell Pete what we think about the bookmark?” she asked.

  “No. Not yet,” I said. “Let’s investigate a little more. Pete always needs real evidence, not just what we think might have happened or what a couple of security guards think about what might or might not have been in an old collectibles show display case. Anyway,” I added, “the important part is who else thinks it’s real and who—besides Wee Willie—figured out where it was.”

  “About those photo albums, Maralee. We know there’s at least one picture of Laraby with the book we found today. If we can find another, or if the one Sharon Stewart claims is missing turns up, that would indicate that he very likely used that particular book to hide the Wagner card, don’t you agree?”