Show Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  “We’re fine,” I said.

  “Tell me what you saw.”

  I described the broken window and the fleeing figure and the car motor.

  “Stay here while I take a look around.” He switched on his flashlight and started for the building.

  “I’m coming with you,” I called out and opened the door.

  Bill stopped. “I’ll signal you when the place is secure.”

  “But—”

  He took off.

  Suddenly, Mildred pulled up behind us in a modest compact car. “What’s going on? The police department called Luther, and Luther called me.”

  “Someone broke into the library,” I said.

  “We heard him run away,” Lola added.

  “Bill . . . Chief Thompson is investigating right now.”

  Luther Adams arrived in an ancient Cadillac. He was a little man with beady eyes and pursed lips. I’d only crossed his path once before at an ELT opening night reception. Benny had spilled fruit punch on his white bucks. He had not been pleased. We filled Luther in and waited around for what seemed like forever until Bill returned.

  “Chief, I’m Luther Adams, the director of the library.”

  “Mr. Adams, it looks like someone broke into the lower level.”

  “This is horrible. Just horrible,” Mildred said, holding back tears.

  “Could you follow me to turn on the lights?”

  “Of course.”

  Mildred and I went along, and Lola stayed in the car.

  Luther unlocked the front door and turned on the lights. The first floor was untouched, and the upstairs stacks were not disturbed. The lower level was another matter. The shelves of the media room were empty as though someone had run his arm down every aisle and swept all of the contents onto the floor, but the special collections area had been hit the hardest. Rare and oversized books were scattered about the room; some were opened with spines bent and broken. A locked case had been shattered, shards of glass everywhere, and the most valuable of the library’s holdings flung with total disregard into a pile that formed a mini-volcano. A handful of brown boxes had been stomped on.

  “Who could have done this?” Mildred said, then bent down to turn a chair right side up.

  “Please don’t touch anything until we’ve had a chance to dust for fingerprints in the morning,” Bill said.

  Mildred straightened up quickly. “Sorry.”

  Bill called Ralph to come to the library and cordon off the crime scene.

  “What can we do?” Luther asked. “Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

  “My team will secure the area. In the morning, after we’ve investigated the scene, we’ll need a complete inventory of anything that is missing. Right now, there’s nothing you can do. I suggest you return to your homes.”

  That included Lola and me, I guess.

  Mildred and Luther thanked Bill, but decided to hang around until they could lock up.

  Meanwhile, Bill took my official statement. “What were you doing here so late at night?”

  “Like I said, Lola had to return a book in the night depository. Then I noticed a light in the lower level and saw the broken window. I heard the perpetrator—”

  Bill cocked his head.

  “A back door opened and closed. I saw a figure and then heard him running away.”

  “Can you describe the figure?”

  “Sorry. It was dark. It looked like a male, though.”

  “Was he carrying anything?”

  I shrugged. “Not that I could see.”

  “And then?”

  “We heard the engine of a car down the block.”

  “Is that everything?”

  “Yes, that’s everything,” I said simply.

  “Okay. Good.”

  “Whoever it was could have taken some of those first editions and sold them for a lot of money,” I said.

  Bill nodded.

  “So maybe it wasn’t books they were after.”

  Ralph’s squad car arrived, lights flashing, houses on all sides of the library lit up. But it was late and only a few people briefly viewed the proceedings from their porches. I could visualize what the town would do with tonight’s events.

  “Oh, Chief,” Mildred said, blotting her eyes, “Who would want to harm these precious books?”

  Mildred was childless so the prized volumes in special collections were like offspring, to be cherished and well cared for. I knew how she felt. I had a thing for old-fashioned paper and binding. I couldn’t get into Nooks and Kindles.

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Tower, but we’re going to do our best to find out,” Bill said and gave her a brief, sympathetic smile.

  “Mildred, did you see anybody strange wandering around the library recently?” I asked.

  I could feel the heat from Bill’s eyes even before I turned to see his frown. I might be overstepping my bounds, I knew, but someone had to plunge in here.

  “I can’t say I have. But there are so many people coming and going in the library. You know, even with the budget cuts and closing early and eliminating programs and staff, there’s still more happening than we can handle. I warned Luther.”

  “About—?”

  “About what?” Bill said simultaneously. He whipped around to face me. “Do you mind if I do my job?”

  I stepped back. “No problem.”

  “Now, Mrs. Tower,” Bill said with a trace of irritation, “what do you mean?”

  “Well, we’ve had new donations from estate sales and some William Carlos Williams items for our New Jersey authors’ shelf, and well . . . we can’t keep up with everything. I’m not sure exactly what the holdings are in the special collections.”

  “Isn’t anyone in charge of curating the collection?”

  Mildred’s voice dropped. “Not since Mary left. I told Luther that letting her go would be a disaster.” She teared up again. “And I was right. How are we going to take an inventory of what’s missing? There are boxes of books that have not been catalogued.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “Who is Mary?” The little hairs were dancing.

  “Mary Robinson. The special collections librarian.”

  Bill was either oblivious or doing his best to ignore my rising excitement. “And where did she go?” I asked.

  Mildred turned up her nose in disgust. “Luther downsized her. Said he had to let some staff go. Budget decreases. She was devastated, poor dear.” She crossed her arms. “But he kept his personal secretary. If you ask me—”

  “Mary. Robinson. MR. The mystery lady.” I could barely contain myself. “I don’t think we ever met. Could you describe her?”

  “Mary? She was seventyish.” Mildred smiled. “But a young seventy. Gray hair . . .”

  “Which she often wore in a French twist?” I asked.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. Why do you ask?”

  I turned to Bill. “She fits the description of the woman with Jerome.”

  “Jerome Angleton? Who was murdered?” Mildred asked, eyes round.

  “Mildred, did Jerome ever visit Mary here? Were they friends?”

  “I couldn’t say. Remember, I told you that Jerome came here to use the computer.”

  “Right.”

  “Sometimes he stopped down in the special collections.”

  “To see Mary?”

  “Not exactly to see Mary, I wouldn’t think. More like the classic first editions down here. He was a retired English teacher, you know. Mary was very knowledgeable about the collection.”

  “Would you know whether they socialized outside of work?”

  Mildred’s laugh was a gentle tinkle. “Oh, goodness no. Mary didn’t date, as she told me many times. She had her two cats, her nieces and nephews in New York somewhere, three of them, and the special collections. She tended to keep to herself.”

  “Where is she now?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I think she left town. The last time I saw her was the day Luther informed
her that she was let go.”

  * * *

  We sat in my Metro in front of Lola’s house. It was twelve-fifteen, already the next day. “I feel sorry for both of them. Jerome and Mary Robinson.”

  Lola stifled a yawn. “It’s been quite a night. And my feet are killing me.” She removed one espadrille and massaged her toes. “Poor Jerome. He had it bad for a woman who was only into cats and books and relatives.”

  “We don’t know the whole story. Maybe Mildred was wrong. Maybe he and Mary were dating. Jerome was very discreet. Mary sounds like she was, too. He spent a lot of money on jewelry. That has to mean something.”

  “He was a thoughtful guy,” Lola said.

  “I wonder what happened to the gold bracelet he bought at Sadlers in Creston,” I mused.

  “I’ll bet Mary Robinson’s got it. I’ll bet she turned over a new leaf, started to see Jerome, fell in love. . . .” Lola said helpfully.

  “I’d like to think so, for both their sakes,” I said. “I don’t know, it just doesn’t add up. There’s something missing.”

  Lola squeezed my arm. “I have to go in and collapse. Big night tomorrow. We run Act I. I am spending the whole day with the script.”

  I gave her a hug. “Thanks for being around tonight.”

  I stayed put until Lola was in the house, the door locked and the upstairs lights switched on. Then I drove carefully home, one eye out for the sinister SUV, and wracked my tired brain about how all this was connected to Jerome’s murder—if at all.

  Chapter 18

  I overslept, unusual for me, and awoke groggy, one eye slit open sufficiently to read my alarm: eight-thirty. My sinuses felt stuffed and my throat scratchy. I burrowed back under the covers and refused to face the day. I was feeling emotionally hungover after the library break-in—thrilled to discover MR, but disheartened about the missing pieces in the whole investigation. I couldn’t shake the idea that Mary Robinson held the key to it all. I sneezed.

  On days like this, I tended to force my way upright with the promise of a caramel macchiato, or maybe fresh pastries from Georgette’s Bakery. But neither was enticing me to hit the shower this morning. I stared at the ceiling and noticed the thread of a crack that ran diagonally from one corner of the room to another. I need to contact my landlord, I thought and—

  The audible vibration of my cell phone, still plugged into its charger on the bureau, got me up and I grabbed it.

  “Hello?” I rasped.

  “Dodie, are you all right?” Carol, at least, was hard at work, given the racket in the background.

  “I might be getting a cold.”

  “From last night? We heard about the library break-in. You must have been terrified.”

  “Well, Lola and I weren’t really in danger—”

  “You saw his face, right?”

  “I—what? No, I—”

  “Annie Walsh said he was over six feet tall—”

  “She what?”

  “—and had a bushy beard—”

  “Carol, stop!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  I closed my eyes. I could not face Etonville today. Not Snippets, not the Windjammer, and certainly not the Etonville Little Theatre where Romeo and Juliet was being thrashed into life.

  “Nothing. It’s all rumors. It was too dark to see anything. No one knows anything at this point.”

  “I should have known. Annie does have a tendency to exaggerate.”

  “I’m just going to take it easy today. Maybe I’ll call in sick,” I said.

  “That sounds like a good idea. Drink some orange juice and pop a few echinacea tabs. Do you need some?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I’ll let you go then.”

  “Okay. Thanks for calling.” I was grouchy but also grateful. I had good friends who checked in on me. “By the way, did you know Mary Robinson? She used to work at the library.”

  “Sure. Quiet, reserved, a bit old-fashioned. I remember cutting her hair on occasion. Always the same cut. No color. But the last time she came in she said she wanted a new look. Something younger. She never came back. I hope she finds another good salon in Poughkeepsie.”

  My dancing hairs started to tingle. “Poughkeepsie?”

  “That’s where her nephew lived.”

  “How do you know?”

  “One of my customers played bridge with her. But that was a while ago. In recent years, I think she mostly kept to herself.”

  I was coming to life, blood rushing through my veins, the top of my head quivering, back in business.

  “I’d like to find Mary and ask about Jerome. I understand they were friends.”

  “You can find anyone on the Internet,” Carol said.

  “True,” I said. “Gotta’ go.”

  I hummed as I showered and planned my strategy for the day. First, a call to Henry to tell him I wouldn’t be in today. Then, a call to Lola to see how she was doing and let her down easy: I would not be wrangling Penny, actors, or Walter tonight. They were on their own. Then, I’d visit Bill.

  Best laid plans.

  Benny was out with a sick kid but would be in for the dinner rush. I sucked it up and told Henry I’d cover the bar and register during lunch, fuming at fate that interrupted my well-conceived schemes. Lola panicked when I called and begged me to see a part of rehearsal. At least Cheney Brothers’ delivery showed up on time and complete; they’d been good as gold since my gentle reprimand.

  I had an hour to hit the Etonville Police Department before I had to be at the Windjammer. I walked past the lobby display in the Municipal Building and turned down the hallway to Bill’s office. I hurried past Edna’s dispatch window, thinking I might escape detection. No such luck.

  “Dodie, that was real brave of you last night,” Edna said efficiently.

  “It was really just an accident that Lola and I were even at the library.”

  “Still, you called it in. A 459.”

  “I’ll bet that’s a break-in.”

  “Yep. Burglary. Don’t know if it’s a 10-29F or 10-29M. Felony or misdemeanor. Depends on the damages.”

  “Is the chief in?”

  “Yes.” Edna’s line buzzed and she waved good-bye. I continued down the hallway and paused by Suki Shung’s cubicle. “Is the chief busy?” I asked.

  “I’ll see.” Suki looked up from her console and studied me coolly, her expression solemn as always.

  “Thanks.”

  She pressed a button. “Chief, Dodie’s here.”

  “Okay. Send her in.”

  I walked into his office. Bill looked like he needed sleep, too; he had dark rings under his eyes, the lids heavy.

  “So far no usable prints from the special collections room,” he said before I even asked.

  “The perp probably used gloves,” I said.

  He cocked an eyebrow at my vocabulary. “Probably.”

  “So I’ve got new information,” I said.

  Bill’s mouth curved up a little and he inclined his head. “Is this going to take a while?”

  “Well, I have to be at work . . .” I glanced at my watch. “In half an hour.”

  He rapped a pencil against the top of his desk. “How about we talk later?”

  “When later? I’m at the Windjammer ’til three and then I have some things to do at home.... And then at rehearsal for part of the night.”

  Bill nodded and leaned back in his chair, hands atop his head. His shirt tightened, considerably highlighting his pecs. “Let me take you out to dinner. Kind of a thank-you. We could talk then.”

  Was this what I thought it was? “Well, I ...”

  “I have to work late. How’s eight-thirty? That give you time to get all of Shakespeare’s ducks in a row?”

  “Make it nine. Just to be sure.”

  “Done. What about La Famiglia? Ever eat there?”

  Uh-oh. I’d be eating with the enemy.

  “I like Italian. What about you?” he asked.

  I’d on
ly done take-out once from La Famiglia. “Fine.”

  “Good. Meet you there at nine.”

  * * *

  I settled in at my kitchen table to find Robinsons in Poughkeepsie, New York. I was banking on one of her nieces or nephews having the same last name. I started with the White Pages and then progressed to a few social media websites.

  As I worked, my mind was on dinner. I took a break, stretched, then crossed to the front door and stared out at my lush, green lawn, the result of a rainy spring. What was I going to wear tonight? This would be the first time Bill and I had even attempted anything remotely resembling a social activity. It wasn’t really a date. Still, I wanted to look my best. Maybe my white dress with the kitten heels?

  I went back to work and focused on Mary. I got a couple of names in Poughkeepsie itself. But also a bunch in other towns, too, like New Paltz, Red Hook, and Garrison. I spent the next hour calling every Robinson I could find in a twenty-mile radius of Poughkeepsie. No one answered at ten of the residences, so I left messages, seven or eight had never heard of a Mary Robinson, and one lonely soul tried to keep me on the line and convince me to buy Girl Scout cookies.

  There had to be some way to find her, but it was not going to happen today. I had to get ready for my “meeting” with Bill after the theater, anyway.

  * * *

  I took a sip of my wine—an expensive bottle of an Italian cabernet that Bill chose from an extensive wine list. “You seem to know your way around reds,” I said.

  “I’m an Italian foodie and I read the Wine Spectator.”

  It was hard to concentrate on the menu once I laid eyes on Bill. He had replaced his uniform with a black shirt, open at the throat, gray slacks, and a pale gray mohair blazer. The aftershave was a scent I didn’t recognize, something woodsy and minty at the same time. His face had a fresh-scrubbed shine, the brush cut of his straw-colored hair neatly combed.

  “You look nice,” he said, assessing my appearance.

  “Thanks.” My auburn hair hung loosely to my shoulders, and I wore my white, sleeveless knit sheath, cut respectably low in front, that fell softly from waist to hem. I’d bought it for a wedding last year that I’d never attended because the engagement was called off, and I had been dying to take it for a spin.

  From our corner table, I looked around the candlelit dining room of La Famiglia, a dozen tables, most full, occupied with folks I didn’t recognize. This was not the Windjammer crowd; maybe out-of-town patrons. Still, a good gathering for a Wednesday night. The atmosphere was warm, inviting, and altogether cozy.