Shelved Under Murder

by Victoria Gilbert

  Shelved Under Murder

  A BLUE RIDGE LIBRARY MYSTERY

  Victoria Gilbert

  For My Husband

  Kevin G. Weavil

  Who thankfully loves books and reading as much as I do.

  “If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.”

  —Marcus Tullius Cicero

  Acknowledgments

  Once again, I must offer thanks where thanks are most certainly due:

  To my amazing and dedicated agent at Literary Counsel, Frances Black. I’m grateful that I have her as a partner on my writing journey.

  To my talented editor, Faith Black Ross, with great appreciation for her skill and support.

  To everyone at Crooked Lane Books who helped to bring this book into being, including those who ensure that the world knows of its existence.

  To my always understanding (and talented) critique partners, Lindsey Duga and Richard Taylor Pearson. (Look them up! Read their books!)

  To my wonderful husband, Kevin Weavil, who puts up with my long writerly “absences” from his life with such grace.

  To my lovely family and friends. I am thankful for the blessing of your presence in my life.

  And finally, to the author community—those I know and those I don’t (yet), in real life and online. Thank you so much for making the world a better place, one story at a time.

  Chapter One

  One thing every librarian learns is that people rarely ask the question they actually want answered.

  “Do you have any books on art?” A high-pitched voice pierced the fog of my thoughts.

  I looked up from the jumble of crocheted items donated for the library sale table at Taylorsford’s annual Heritage Festival. Shelving my internal debate over whether bleaching would revive the dingy doilies, I crossed to the open door of the workroom. My assistant, Sunny, who was perched on a stool behind the built-in wooden circulation desk, glanced over at me, her golden eyebrows arching over her wide blue eyes. I shook my finger at her and mouthed, Behave.

  Sunny turned away and focused on the patron, a young woman with dark hair highlighted with purple streaks. Not someone I’d seen in the Taylorsford library before, which meant she was either a new resident or a visitor.

  Or perhaps she was a tourist. In October the streets of Taylorsford overflowed with visitors—many came simply to enjoy the autumn foliage, but most arrived for the Heritage Festival, which would be held the following weekend. A celebration of town history, the festival featured a wide variety of local artists and craftspeople as well as tours of old homes and nearby wineries.

  “Art books? We have quite a few. Do you have a particular style or artist in mind?” Sunny’s peacock-blue enameled bracelets jangled as she lifted her arm to shove a lock of her long blonde hair behind her ear.

  “Well, yes.” The patron eyed Sunny with a look I recognized—the suspicious stare of someone worried about being played. She was probably afraid narrowing her query would result in failure. “But I thought I’d just head to the general art section and poke around until I found what I wanted.”

  Sunny nodded. “You can do that. But if you have something specific in mind, I might be able to locate it quickly.” She pointed at the Wonder Woman watch on her left wrist. “Might be helpful since you don’t have much time today. It’s four thirty and we close at five.”

  The young woman tugged on her large hoop earring. “It’s probably too specific.”

  Aha, I’d been right. Miss Patron was convinced that her question was too obscure, when specific information was actually easier for an experienced researcher to find.

  “Try me.” Sunny flashed a bright smile.

  “Well”—the patron toyed with the shoulder strap of her backpack—“it’s this painter named Wynn. I can’t remember his first name, and he’s pretty recent, so I’m not sure you’ll have anything…”

  “So a younger artist? We should start with the periodicals then, but I’m sure we’ll find something.” Sunny slipped out from behind the desk. “This way.” She headed for the stacks with one glance back over her shoulder. I gave her an encouraging smile. Of course she’d find something, if there was anything to be found. Having worked there several years before I became the library director, she knew our collections better than I did. She could often pluck requested materials from the shelves without even searching the online catalog.

  I tapped my short fingernails against the oak circulation desk. Original to the 1919 library building, its grooved and pitted surface reflected its age. But the desk would not be replaced as long as I was in charge. Like the vaulted ceiling, deep-silled windows, and thick plaster walls, it exuded a well-worn elegance that could never be replicated.

  After checking out some books and straightening the reshelving cart, I glanced at the wall clock. It was four forty-five, time to alert any remaining patrons that the library would close in fifteen minutes.

  I walked through the main portion of the library, which was just one large room with a decorative mahogany arch dividing a reading area from the stacks. After straightening a display of library handouts, I cast a lingering glance at the NEW BOOKS rack. There were many recent books I longed to read, but I always forced myself to wait until they went into the general stacks, feeling it was more appropriate for our patrons to have first dibs on the newest materials. Besides, I chided myself, you already have a stack of books threatening to topple off your nightstand. I sighed as I contemplated the sad truth that in the years since I’d become a librarian, I’d actually read fewer books. My job required me to peruse tons of reviews to select items for the library, but it had become increasingly difficult to find time to read the books themselves. Despite what many people thought, librarians could rarely read at work. They were too busy helping patrons with research, acquiring and processing materials, and providing literacy tutoring and homework assistance.

  As I circled around the shelves, I passed Sunny and the patron interested in art. “Find what you needed?” I asked.

  “Yeah, great stuff.” The girl clutched a sheaf of papers to her chest. “I had to make copies, though. Couldn’t check anything out.”

  “There was nothing in the circulating collection anyway,” Sunny said as she slid a copy of Art in America back into its slot in the current periodical rack.

  “Sunny said the artist is too new to be listed in any books yet.” The patron gave my assistant a grateful smile.

  Sunny to the rescue once again. I made a mental note to remind the town council about her invaluable patron assistance. Maybe they’d finally see their way to giving her a raise. “Well, we open tomorrow morning at ten if you need to come back.”

  “Cool, but I think I’ve got what I need. Thanks, though.” The girl stuffed the papers into her backpack. “Though I might want to come back later to look for something on that local artist, Rachel LeBlanc. I’m trying to complete several projects at once.”

  “You’re at Clarion University?” I asked, then wondered if I’d misread her age. She looked too old to be in high school, but I’d guessed wrong before.

  “Yeah. My roommate’s family lives here and she comes home every weekend. It’s only a thirty-minute drive, you know.”

  I knew that only too well, since I’d worked at Clarion until about a year and a half ago. But I just nodded.

  “My roommate invited me for a visit just to get away from campus for a few days. Also, it’s a chance to eat real food for a change.” The girl’s grin made her look instantly younger. “I guess I should’ve done the research at the campus library, but”—she hoisted her backpack straps over her shoulders—“I never got around to it.”

  “It happens,” I said. “Anyway, you’re always
welcome here, although we don’t have the resources the university library can provide.”

  “That’s okay. It’s just short reports, no big deal.”

  “By the way, I happen to know Rachel LeBlanc,” Sunny volunteered. “Maybe I can snag you an interview.”

  The girl’s kohl-rimmed eyes widened. “Really? That would be great.”

  “Can’t promise, but I’ll do my best.” Sunny motioned toward the front doors. “Unfortunately, now we have to ask you to leave. It’s closing time.”

  “Oh yeah, sure.” The girl strode off, pausing to thank Sunny again before she pushed through the inner doors and into the foyer.

  Sunny glanced back at me. “All clear in here. Did you check the children’s room?”

  “No, but I’ll do that now. Richard’s waiting for me in there anyway.”

  “In the children’s room? What’s he doing reading kids’ books?”

  “Research. Remember—he got that grant to create a new piece?”

  “Oh, right, he’s choreographing something to be performed at public schools.” Sunny absently twirled her bracelets around her slender wrist. “I guess it’s like that production of Peter and the Wolf they brought to my elementary school once. I was bored, to be honest. Now, if it had been a show with Richard dancing, I’d pay attention, believe me.”

  “Sadly, he’s not going to perform. His teaching schedule at the university won’t allow for that. But the piece is going to be danced by the seniors in his studio at Clarion, which is a great opportunity for them. He just wanted to look at picture books for inspiration. He claims illustrations sometimes spark ideas.”

  “Makes sense. Okay, you collect Richard and I’ll shut down the circ computer.” Sunny headed for the main desk as I made my way to the children’s room.

  Crossing into the annex meant stepping from early-twentieth-century elegance into late-1970s functionality. The children’s room had been an addition to the original historic library, and its sheetrock walls and stained ceiling tiles betrayed the cost-cutting associated with its construction. Sunny and I had tried to enliven the space with posters and mobiles and other decorations, but I still always felt as if I were walking back into my public elementary school. The scent of chalk dust wafting from a blackboard that covered part of one wall only added to this impression.

  Just inside the door I ran into one of our frequent patrons, Samantha Green, who often brought her young daughter, Shay, to the library.

  “Sorry, it’s closing time,” I said, after a quick glance revealed no additional patrons. I frowned, wondering where Richard was.

  Samantha laid her hand on my arm. “Just a little bit longer, please.” Her voice broke on the last word.

  I examined her face more closely and noticed the tears filling her brown eyes. “Anything wrong?”

  “Yes and no. Not now. But if you could give them a minute.” She gestured toward one of the chest-high sections of shelving.

  I walked around the shelf, Samantha following on my heels. Richard was kneeling in the center of a geometric-patterned rug, talking quietly to the rather plump young girl who stood before him.

  Samantha tapped my arm. “Shay was in here with some other girls,” she whispered. “They were reading books about dancers and Shay said she wanted to be a ballerina and they said she couldn’t. So she tried to do a little turn and fell and they … Well, they all laughed and she cried.”

  So, of course, Richard would try to comfort her. Of course he would.

  Shay raised her voice to reply to something Richard had murmured. “But they said I was too fat.”

  I sucked in a sharp breath, knowing how this statement might affect him. One of his dearest friends had fled the dance world and disappeared from his life because she’d been told she was too large to succeed as a professional dancer.

  “That’s ridiculous.” Richard’s pleasant expression displayed none of the pain I suspected he felt. “Anyone can dance. Doesn’t matter what size you are.”

  Shay rubbed her pudgy hand under her runny nose. “And they said ballerinas have to be white.”

  Anger flashed in Richard’s clear gray eyes. “That’s nonsense too. You shouldn’t pay any attention to those girls—they’re far too silly. Do you have a computer at home? With the Internet?”

  Shay bobbed her head.

  “Well then, you tell your mom”—Richard glanced over at Samantha, his face brightening when he made eye contact with me—“to look up videos featuring Misty Copeland, Yuan Yuan Tan, or Thaina Silva. You’ll see you don’t need to be white or tiny to be a ballerina.”

  Samantha gave him a thumbs-up gesture.

  “Now”—Richard gracefully rose to his feet—“I think the real problem with the turn was that you didn’t have a partner. Every ballerina needs her cavalier.” He held out his hand.

  When Shay shyly clasped his fingers, he lifted her arm above her head. “Try that pirouette again.”

  It was more of a shuffle around on two feet than a pirouette, but with Richard keeping her balanced, Shay was able to complete a full turn.

  “There you go,” he said, dropping her hand and executing a little bow.

  I felt as if one of those heavy dodge balls from elementary school had just hit me in the chest. Every time I didn’t think I could love Richard more …

  Shay grinned and ran to her mother. “Did you see, Mama? Did you see?”

  “I did,” Samantha hugged her daughter. “But we have to go. They need to close up.”

  A smile lit up Shay’s face. “Will you come back to the library again?” she asked Richard.

  “I’m sure I will,” he told her, his gaze fixed on me.

  As mother and daughter left the room hand in hand, I crossed to Richard and flung my arms around him.

  “Oof.” He obviously hadn’t anticipated the force of my hug. But he recovered immediately and pulled me closer. “Now that’s what I call a proper welcome.”

  “You just have to find ways to make me love you more, don’t you?” I tipped back my head so I could look up into his face.

  “One of my many talents,” he replied with a grin, then gave me the kind of kiss I doubted had ever been seen in the children’s room before.

  A dramatic cough brought me back to my senses.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but everything’s shut down and the doors are locked, so I’m heading out.”

  Richard and I stepped away from each other and turned to the open doorway, where Sunny stood, a broad grin illuminating her face.

  “Okay, sure.” I tugged down my rumpled sweater.

  Sunny tipped her head to one side and looked us over. “So, date night?”

  “Just grabbing some dinner,” I said.

  “Then back to my place.” Richard slid his arm around my waist.

  “What about you?” I asked Sunny. “Meeting up with Brad or what?”

  “No, he has to work. The sheriff’s office is so short-staffed these days he’s always pulling extra shifts. One of the problems with being the chief deputy, I guess. But anyway, I have to run an errand.” Sunny slid her fingers through her silky hair. “Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you—I scored a real coup. One that’s sure to make Mel Riley happy.”

  “Something can actually do that?” I made a face. Melody Riley, the new chair of the Taylorsford Friends of the Library, was notoriously hard to please.

  “This can. You know how she goes on and on about wanting real, high-quality art and crafts for the library table at the festival? Well, I convinced Rachel LeBlanc to donate three paintings.”

  “Really?” Richard asked. “How’d you manage that?”

  Like Richard, I was impressed. I had never met Rachel LeBlanc, but I knew about her international reputation as a painter. She’d moved back to Taylorsford from New York after inheriting her parents’ farm ten years ago. Her studio and gallery, located in a converted barn on her property, was one of Taylorsford’s popular tourist attractions.

  “I just asked. She’
s very nice, you know. Not snooty or anything. Remember, Amy, when I took some painting lessons from her husband, Maurice? Well, Reese, as he likes to be called.”

  “Yeah, I remember. You said he’s a great teacher, although he doesn’t have Rachel’s fame.”

  “I don’t know why that is, exactly. I love his work,” Sunny said. “But I guess he’s more of a brilliant technician while Rachel has the unique vision. Reese can teach all kinds of styles, though, and I don’t think Rachel could ever do that. She has her own signature style, and it’s pretty distinctive. Anyway, one day after class, Reese introduced us, and Rachel and I hit it off. We’ve met up for lunch a few times since, so I thought, why not ask?”

  “I’m sure if anyone could convince an artist to donate expensive paintings, it would be you,” Richard said.

  Sunny’s bracelets jangled as she waved her hand. “Oh, it wasn’t hard. Rachel’s a real sweetheart and thinks supporting the library is important. My only worry at this point is whether three of her paintings will fit in the Bug.”

  “Yeah, aren’t her paintings usually large?” I asked.

  “Thus my dilemma.”

  “Easy enough to solve. We can follow you to the LeBlanc farm and transport one or two of the paintings in my car.” Richard glanced down at me. “Is that okay?”

  “Of course.” I gave his waist a squeeze. “It’s for the library sale, after all.”

  “I don’t want to interfere with your plans,” Sunny said, but her face visibly brightened.

  “Not a problem. Maybe we’ll just grab some takeout from that new Chinese place and head back home.” Richard met my approving gaze. “We can even store a couple of the paintings at my house. I’ll cart them over here before the sale.”

  “Well…” Sunny twirled a strand of her golden hair around one finger. “It would make things easier for me. But I hate to mess up your evening.”

  “Don’t be silly. We’re happy to help,” I said.

  Richard hugged me a little closer. “All for a good cause. Besides, I’ll still be spending time with Amy and will have the added benefit of your company.”