by J. M. LeDuc
Brent finished in the bathroom and then got dressed for the day. He still liked wearing long-sleeved, cotton, button-down shirts and jeans even though he lived in the heat and humidity of Palm Cove, Florida.
He grabbed his backpack and headed for the library. He turned his head toward the strap and inhaled deeply, smelling the worn-leather aroma. He couldn’t imagine doing without the pack.
One Christmas, Chloe had bought him a beautiful, black alligator briefcase. As soon as he opened the box it was packaged in, Chloe saw by the look on his face that he would never use it. Brent assured her that he loved it and he even tried using it for a while. But it just didn’t fit. That’s the way he put it to her,
“It just doesn’t fit, Chloe. I’m sorry.”
She smiled and said, “You’ll never change. You’re anal-retentive and a little OCD, but I love you anyway.”
As he stepped from the townhouse onto the street, he brushed against the vine-covered brick wall and lovingly remembered when his grandfather told him, “One day, this will all be yours. Treat her with kindness, and she’ll be a haven from the outside world.”
The left side of his mouth moved into a half-smile as he locked the door and turned to walk to work. It was October 27. This hurricane season had been a quiet one and nearly over, thank God. But the humidity southeast Florida was famous for still gripped the weather. By the time he walked the six blocks to the main library on the corner of Main and First Street, Brent was sticky and began to sweat. He learned from years of living in the tropical atmosphere to keep deodorant and extra shirts in his office.
CHAPTER 3
As he climbed the stairs to the large double doors that were a landmark in this part of the city, Brent’s smile quickly turned to a frown. His focus shifted from the beautiful ornate wooden doors to the bars that covered the windows, and the large barred gate that protected the doors. A sign of the times, he thought. Brent thought back to when the library had been broken into and vandalized two years before. When he was asked about it by a Palm Cove Tribune reporter, he couldn’t give her an accurate response. He did remember the flack he caught from the major and the city council for his remark,
“I wouldn’t even mind the vandalism if they came to steal books, but since most of the teens in the city are illiterate, that’ll never happen. They just break in to make a mess; sort of a microcosm of their lives, isn’t it?”
An anonymous contributor and major benefactor to the literary council saved Brent’s job by saying, “You fire that young man and my contributions go with him.”
The incident had taught Brent to keep his mouth shut at all times.
Unlocking the library doors, Brent walked in and inhaled deeply. He loved the smell of the old building and the books. He turned to his right, punched the code into the security keypad and turned off the alarm. When it was installed, he’d been told to pick a code he wouldn’t forget. He chose 24563—“Chloe” on a touchtone phone. Since then, he’d thought about changing it, but he always found an excuse not to.
Brent flipped on the lights and went straight to work. It was 6:45 a.m. He had two hours and fifteen minutes to work uninterrupted before other employees, and the public, trickled in. Opening the door to his office, he knew he should have been overwhelmed as he glanced at his desk. Unlike his home, his office was always a mess. Not really a mess, but at first glance, it appeared to be. His office doubled as the rare book office of Palm Cove’s public library.
The office was small, considering its purpose. There were many documents and books that had to be valued, authenticated and catalogued. Even in all the clutter Brent knew where everything was and everything had its place.
Brent walked to the table behind his desk that held the coffeemaker and pushed the on button. He always cleaned the pot and refilled the coffee, filter and water before he closed down for the night. The aroma of coffee soon filled the office.
With a fresh-brewed cup of Italian bold roast in hand, Brent sat down. As he began to work, he heard what sounded like the door of the library open. The sound didn’t faze him because there were large Coconut Palm trees adjacent to the front entrance. Brent figured that he just heard the wind blowing the palm fronds against the wooden doors. He took a sip of coffee and heard the unmistakable sound of the door shutting. The hinges squealed and scraped before the heavy mahogany door closed with a loud thud.
Then he heard a soft feminine voice call out.
“Hello, good morning. Mr. Venturi, are you here? Hello?”
Brent walked around his desk as quickly as he could without disrupting any of the piles of books and files. He went into the main hall and, for the first time, saw Lucille Conklin. Mrs. Conklin smiled a very relieved smile. She was an older woman, probably in her mid to late sixties, though the way she carried herself made her look much younger. She was sophisticated and unpretentious, a rare pair in this town. She wore her blonde hair coiffed short, and she wore a tropical patterned sundress that stopped just above her knees. Her matching shoes were coral, open-toed pumps. Brent thought that she moved toward him with a definite purpose.
He extended his hand and introduced himself. “I’m Mr. Venturi, but call me Brent. How can I help you?”
“I’m sorry to bother you so early, but as I drove by I saw the open gate so I thought I’d take a chance. I’m Lucille Conklin. It’s nice to make your acquaintance. My late husband Joseph, was a frequent visitor to this branch of the library and an avid admirer of your antiquarian book collection.”
“I appreciate that, but as much as I would like to say it’s mine, this collection is city property and not privately owned,” he replied.
“Well, you’re about to have your own collection. My husband has bequeathed his books to you, personally. They’re in the trunk of my car. I’m parked illegally just outside the front doors, so if you could help me bring them in, I would greatly appreciate it.”
Brent was speechless. Who was this woman? Who was her husband? Why did he leave his books to him? Before he could ask, Mrs. Conklin was moving toward the front doors with that same sense of purpose in her step. Quicker than he could have expected, she was down the steps. Using the remote, she popped the trunk just as Brent arrived. Inside were two boxes with his name on them. He leaned into the trunk and picked up the first box.
Darn, that’s heavy, he thought as he lifted and carried it back up the steps. Grunting from the strain of the weight, he said, “Please don’t try to lift the other box. I’ll be right back.” He placed the box just inside the open door, and bounded back down the steps to make it look like it was no big deal. “Would you mind if I asked you a question?” he said before he lifted the second box.
“I am in a rush to get to another appointment,” she said, glancing at her watch, “but I guess I have a moment. What would you like to know?”
“I apologize for my ignorance, Mrs. Conklin, but your husband’s name doesn’t ring a bell. Did we know each other?”
She smiled. “First of all, please call me Lucille. I’m not much on formality. Second, I guess I should not be surprised that you don’t recognize the name. My late husband was very private and not one to introduce himself using his full name. So, you probably never knew it. But he certainly knew yours and who you were. Each time he returned from the library, he commented on you and your craftsmanship. He used to tell me that he admired a man with such intelligence but who chose to do something he loved instead of working somewhere else and making more money. Her comments thrust Brent’s memory into overdrive. He suddenly remembered conversations with an older gentleman called Joe, about books and the wonders of reading. This led to other conversations on politics, art, and well, you name it. Brent looked forward to seeing him walk into the library because he knew he was in for some stimulating discussion. He remembered specifically the conversation they’d had about salary and finances.
Joe had bluntly asked Brent why
he worked as a librarian when, with his master’s degrees in fine arts and world history, he could make a lot more money teaching at a university or working in private industry. Brent had answered that he loved what he did and led a pretty simple life, so he was able to get by on the little that the city paid him.
“I remember your husband,” Brent said. “In fact, I’ve been wondering why he hadn’t been in lately. I’m so sorry about your loss. Your husband was a joy to be around and I truly enjoyed his company whenever we were able to spend a little time together.”
“Thank you, Brent. Joseph thought highly of you also. In fact, when you had that trouble with vandalism and the city council threatened to fire you, he told me that if they let you go, he’d never step foot in the library again.”
“So he was the one,” Brent mused. “If you don’t mind my asking, how did your husband die, Mrs. Conklin?”
“Heart attack,” she said. Before Brent could say another word, Lucille looked down at her watch. “Oh dear, look at the time. I’m already late. It’s been a pleasure meeting and talking to you, Mr. Venturi. But I really must go. Here is a card with my phone number and address on it if you have any questions about the books.” She was about to shut the trunk when they both noticed that the second box was still inside.
“And for what it’s worth,” Lucille said as Brent picked up the box, “my husband was right about you.” With that, she walked quickly to the driver’s door, got in and left.
Brent carried the second box into the library, using his shoulder to shut the doors. He felt his shoulder pop as he did it. Ahg, that stings, he thought.
He brought the box back to his office and then returned to retrieve the first box. Just as he was about to open the boxes, he heard the familiar voices of his coworkers. Looking at the clock, Brent noticed that it was 8:55 a.m. Wow, that time went by fast, he thought. This will have to wait until later. Then he pushed the boxes under his desk and out of the way.
The morning went by in typical fashion. Before he knew it, it was twelve thirty and lunchtime. Brent looked around his office, surveying the situation. Not bad, he thought, I can actually see a light at the end of the tunnel.
Brent had been so preoccupied with cataloguing books and papers that had cluttered his office that he didn’t have time to think about the boxes under his desk. As he stood admiring his morning’s accomplishments, he heard his stomach growl. “I better feed the beast, before its growl turns into a bite.” The saying didn’t make sense, but his grandfather said it every time his stomach growled. Now it was just part of his vernacular.
On his way out, Brent told the receptionist he was going to lunch and asked her to hold his calls.
Joan looked up from her computer and said, “Yeah, sure, whatever.”
Brent had said the same thing every day when he left for lunch and her reply was always the same. Since he’d broken up with Chloe, the fact was, he rarely received phone calls. And if he did, Joan had no choice but to hold them since Brent hated cell phones and never carried his when he went to lunch.
Brent bought a paper at the newsstand and headed for a small deli tucked out of the way. Same routine, every day. He had to admit that Chloe was right. He was just a little anal and obsessive-compulsive. After lunch and reading the headlines and editorials, usually the only parts of the paper he bothered with, Brent left his money on the table and headed back to his office.
CHAPTER 4
From the corner of his eye, Brent noticed a black Hummer following him as he walked back to work. Why would a car be following me? He shrugged it off and kept walking. A cool breeze washed across his skin and brought with it a taste of the cooler, less-humid weather to come.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. It was as if an alarm went off in his body, causing his senses to tingle and carrying too much déjà vu for his liking.
Shrugging that feeling off, he re-entered the library and noticed that the full bustle of the day had begun. Schools had let out, and hordes of students and parents milled about. It never ceased to amaze him how lost they looked inside the library. They reminded him of rats in a maze trying to find the cheese. He walked over to a group of volunteers and said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d help the mice find the cheese.” They knew what he meant and dispersed to help those in need find what they were looking for.
Brent turned to look at Joan, whose head was buried in a romance novel. He tried to think of something witty to say to her as he walked by, but he wasn’t quick enough. Looking up, Joan said, “Oh, if it isn’t the techno wiz.” She called him that because she knew he disliked using a computer and cell phone. “If you don’t start carrying your cell phone, I swear…”
“Whoa! What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until now?”
“You had a visitor who waited for forty-five minutes. She finally had to leave so she left you this note.” Joan handed Brent an envelope.
“She, you said?” hoping it had been Chloe.
“Yeah, and you would have liked her, too. She was a very pretty lady.”
“Do I know her?” he asked.
“I don’t think so. She was kind of short, about five-foot-four or five-foot-five, very shapely, shoulder-length red hair. She was dressed in designer clothes like she came from over the bridge.”
Brent knew she meant the very wealthy Palm Harbor residents.
“Did she say what she wanted?”
“No, that’s why she gave me this envelope, telling me to make sure I personally handed it to you. So, here you go.” Joan then went back to her reading as if the conversation had never happened.
Brent decided to read the note in the privacy of his office. He thanked Joan and headed back to his sanctuary.
He poured himself a new cup of old coffee and sat down behind his desk. He reached for his pearl-handled letter opener, the one he’d picked up on one of his trips to the Orient, and slit the envelope open.
Before he could even read what it said, the mysterious visitor had already made two impressions. The first one was the scent that drifted from the open envelope—intoxicating. The second impression was made by what she had written the note on. He felt the paper, almost caressed it, thinking how unusual the material was—more handmade than mass-produced. He was so impressed with the paper that he nearly forgot to read it.
Mr. Venturi,
You don’t know the full story surrounding the death of Joseph Conklin, but I do.
Call me at this number when you get this note.
Trust me.
Maddie Smith
“Trust you? Who are you and what the heck are you talking about?” he muttered to himself. As he was about to toss the letter, he thought about Joseph’s wife. Brent felt an obligation to Lucille to find out what this Maddie person knew so he could tell her about it. He pondered the note for a few minutes and then dialed the phone number on the business card clipped to the note.
The phone rang twice before a woman answered. “South Florida Interpreters Association. How can I be of assistance?”
“May I speak to Maddie Smith, please,” Brent said.
There was a short but definite hesitation on the other end of the line before the voice uttered, “I can’t talk now. Call me later at the other number, or I’ll call you.”
He heard a dial tone before he could say a word. What other number? he thought. There is only one number on the card. Brent picked it up again. Turning it over he saw a handwritten phone number. Sitting there, he pondered what this was all about when the ringing of the phone startled him. He jerked at the sound and knocked over his coffee cup, spilling the coffee on his desk. “Damn!” he yelled and then quickly grabbed for a paper towel from the table that held the coffeemaker. He placed a large section on top of the spill to soak up the liquid and then reached for the phone. “Yeah—I mean, this is Brent. May I help you?”
“Spill your coffee again?” It was Joan. She knew by the tone of his voice that he had.
“Darn it, Joan! Use the intercom.”
“I would, but you don’t know how to answer it. And I would appreciate it if you did not speak to me in that tone of voice.”
Brent calmed down and apologized for being abrupt and rude. She told him it was okay, that she’d called to remind him of his three o’clock meeting in the conference room.
Brent looked at his watch; it was 3:05. “I forgot all about it. Thanks, Joan. I owe you.”
“I’ll just add it to the list,” she said.
Brent gathered his papers, threw on a new white dress shirt and tweed sport coat, and headed upstairs for his meeting with the state and city officials to discuss why the library building should be declared a historical landmark. Neither they nor anyone else knew the real reason why Brent didn’t want it torn down.
Like most meetings, this one dragged on. Debating a topic in a roomful of politicians almost guarantees a long, drawn-out discussion. Brent was on his best behavior. He let each one say their piece, both for and against his proposal, acknowledging their valid points. He answered every opposing view with subtle, concise rebuttals, backed up with enough facts and reasons that by the end of the meeting, he felt pretty confident that he’d be able to get the required number of votes to secure the historical status.
Once the debate was over, the mayor asked Brent if he would give the committee privacy to vote on the issue. Brent stood up, excused himself and waited in the hall for their decision.
Fifteen minutes later, the mayor called him back in. The committee had been impressed with Brent’s presentation, and the facts were more than enough for the committee to recommend historical status. That meant the building could not be torn down or renovated in any way that would change its looks or architectural details. It was nearly 7:00 p.m. before Brent made formal thank yous and good-byes.
