The Librarian and the Spy

by Susan Mann

  Quinn read the small print under the photo. “It’s a Celtic knot.” She snapped the book closed. “We have a winner.” She scanned the titles of the books on either side of the first’s location and took the ones that looked most promising from the shelf.

  They exited the stacks and walked toward a nearby vacant table. “Why don’t you look through these books and I’ll go back to the desk and see what else I can find for you.” She placed the books on the table while James set his belongings down next to them. He slipped off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair.

  “This is brilliant.” He took a seat and looked up at her. “Thank you so much for your help.”

  “You’re welcome. It’s why they pay me the big bucks.” Her heart skipped a beat—again—at the dazzling smile on his face. “I’ll check back with you in a little while with whatever else I find.”

  She hustled back toward the reference desk. She sighed when she realized her research for James would have to wait. Ed Robles, a fellow reference librarian, was already occupied with one patron while two more stood waiting at the counter.

  For the next forty-five minutes, a steady stream of patrons kept her busy. Between pointing out the parenting books to the harried young mother with a death grip around the wrist of her scowling three-year-old—the kid was clearly approaching critical mass and a thermonuclear tantrum seemed imminent—tracking down the sports page of the local newspaper to the men’s room and having to send Ed in to retrieve it, and helping the man in oil-stained pants find the correct pages for his pickup in a service manual, she didn’t have a moment to give James’s Celtic brooch a second thought.

  When the action at the desk finally slowed, she did some research. She compared James’s brooch to a similar one owned by the British Museum and guessed it to be from the eighth or ninth century A.D. Quinn also found the title of a book that looked spot-on and tracked down a copy at UCLA’s main research library. It would be a fun field trip to go on campus again and take a look at it if need be.

  She set off toward James’s table, excited to share the information she’d uncovered with him. She turned the corner and saw the empty chair. Her steps slowed as she scanned the area, thinking perhaps he’d moved to another location. He was nowhere to be seen. She reached the table and noted the books she’d left him with remained. His jacket and briefcase, like their owner, were gone.

  Chapter Two

  Quinn walked into the Bullpen to find a young woman sitting in her desk chair and spinning herself around and around. Her long, jet black hair moved like a silk curtain in a breeze with each new rotation. “You’re late,” she said without stopping.

  “And you’re in my chair,” Quinn countered to her best friend.

  Nicole Park stopped and faced Quinn. After some rapid blinking to clear the dizziness, Nicole’s dark eyes found Quinn’s face. “I had to sit somewhere while I waited for you.”

  “You didn’t have to spin.”

  “What good is a swivel chair if you don’t spin?” When Quinn didn’t answer right away, she pointed and said, “See? You’re totally going to do it all the time now.”

  There was a reason her friend was a children’s librarian. Kids—and everyone else, for that matter—were drawn to Nicole’s sense of wonder, ebullient personality, and warm smile. She was a natural fit for the job.

  “Who says I don’t already?”

  Nicole giggled. “The truth comes out.”

  “Yes, you’ve found me out,” Quinn said, the mock shame heavy in her tone. She flicked a glance over her shoulder and then leaned in. “When no one else is around, I’ve spun in my chair a time or two.”

  Nicole dropped her chin and gazed up at her from under an arched eyebrow. “You wild thing, you.”

  “That’s me.” Quinn came around to the other side of the desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. She lifted out the paper lunch sack and pushed at the drawer with her foot. It slid closed with an echoing boom. “Ready?”

  “Oh, come on, Q,” Nicole said, exasperated. “Not another sad little peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

  “You know it’s all I can afford right now. Christmas is coming up and I don’t want to have to buy my niece and nephews their presents from the library’s discarded books sale table. I’m not sure the two-year-old would appreciate the nuances of a steamy bodice ripper.”

  “You don’t know until you try. He might like it.”

  “Says the most inappropriate children’s librarian ever. I’ll go with you to the deli, though.”

  “Deal.”

  Twenty minutes later, they sat on a bench in front of the library—where its close proximity to the beach meant that most fiction books were returned with sand between the pages and smelling faintly of suntan lotion. They munched on their lunches and soaked up the early December Southern California sunshine.

  “So, tell me about the cute guy you were chatting up at the reference desk earlier,” Nicole said before she took another bite of her chicken salad sandwich. “That’s a nice way to start the week.”

  “Who? Mr. Ackerman? I guess he’s cute for a guy my grandpa’s age.” She had discovered the whereabouts of the missing sports page on behalf of Mr. Ackerman, the sweet widower who came into the library every day to read the newspaper.

  Nicole bumped Quinn with a shoulder. “Don’t give me that crap, Q. You know who I mean: brown leather jacket, jeans. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice the thick, wavy, dark blond hair.”

  Quinn had indeed noticed the thick, wavy, dark blond hair.

  “When we get back from lunch, you should ask him out.”

  “I’m not going to ask him out.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, for one thing, he might be married.”

  “Was he wearing a ring?”

  “No, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

  “You should have asked.”

  “Not exactly part of the reference interview, Nic. ‘Does the owner have any information on the brooch? Oh, and by the way, are you married?’” She took a sip of water from her bottle. “Subtle.”

  “You’re clever enough to have found out without him even realizing it. You’re good at getting information from people.”

  “It’s part of the job,” she answered with a shrug. “When someone comes in and says, ‘I want to find a book I read last year. It’s about this guy who’s a lawyer and his wife leaves him. Can you tell me where it is?’ you have to know how to get more details out of them.” Nicole was right, though. Off the top of her head, she could think of at least three different questions she could have asked to find out James’s marital status. “Even if I was crazy enough to ask, I can’t. He left.”

  “He left?” Nicole’s voice pitched up an octave. “He looked like he was going to be there a while when I saw you with him at the table.”

  “I thought so, too. I even did more research for him. But when I went to talk to him, he was gone.”

  “Maybe he went to lunch and he’ll be back.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And when he comes back, you need to ask him out.”

  “You know I’m not going to do that. Besides, I don’t know anything about him other than he works for an insurance company. He could be a descendant of Jack the Ripper for all I know.”

  “Why Jack the Ripper?”

  Quinn heaved a sigh, knowing full well there was a tsunami-sized reaction coming. “He’s British.”

  “He’s British? Oh my God!” Nicole clutched at her chest. “A handsome British guy! Quinn Ellington’s kryptonite.”

  The heads of both the man passing in front of them and the dog he was walking swung toward them at Nicole’s hoots. Quinn just closed her eyes and shook her head. Drawing unwanted attention was simply part of the territory whenever she was in public with Nicole. Eyeing the medium-sized dog with a flashy marbled white, black, and copper coat, Quinn said, “Did you know Australian shepherds aren’t from Australia at all? They were developed as
herding dogs on ranches in the western United States.”

  “I didn’t know that, and don’t change the subject. If you don’t ask him out, I’ll do it for you.”

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “Come on, Q. He’s British, he’s cute . . .” Nicole raised a finger as she ticked off each point.

  “He’s gone, I’ll never see him again, and I don’t ask guys out . . .” Quinn raised her fingers as she spoke, mimicking Nicole.

  “You’re so old-fashioned.” Nicole popped the last bite of sandwich into her mouth. After she swallowed, she said, “Fine. Forget the British dude. We still need to get you out there.”

  “No, we really don’t. I’m good.” The words came out as more of a growl than she intended. Quinn stared at the traffic flowing past.

  “Fair enough,” Nicole said. “The last guy we set you up with wasn’t exactly Mr. Perfect.”

  “You think?” Quinn said wryly. “I’m sure the feeling was mutual—I thought he was kidding when he said I should become a fruitarian. Turns out he wasn’t. Oops.”

  “I blame Brian. It was his idea to set you up with that dopey friend of his in the first place.”

  “It’s okay. His heart was in the right place. No harm, no foul.”

  “We’ll find the right guy for you someday.” Nicole brightened and sat up straight. “Hey! I know. You should go out with Brian and me tonight. We’re going to check out the new Korean barbecue place after work. Come with us and enjoy the food of my people.”

  Quinn cut her eyes toward her friend. “Your mom wants you to check it out and then reassure her that her food is way better, doesn’t she?”

  “You know it.” They stood and walked toward the front steps of the library. “You should come. It’ll be fun.”

  “You know how I feel about being a third wheel.”

  “I know, but this is no big deal. Just dinner. You’ve gone out with us before. You like Brian, right?”

  “You know I do.” Brian practically worshipped Nicole, and the two of them together were adorable.

  “Look, you’re always talking about how you’d like something exciting to happen in your life once in a while.” Nicole paused. “Although now that I think about it, I’m not sure going out for Korean barbecue is exactly what you had in mind.”

  “Are you kidding? The food of your people is always an adventure. I never know when some superspicy kimchi will turn me into a fire-breathing dragon.”

  They climbed the steps toward the entrance. “See? You totally want to go now.”

  “I do, but I can’t. No money, remember?”

  “Yeah, I know. I could—”

  “No. I appreciate the offer, but no.” She grabbed the handle and pulled open one of the glass double doors.

  “Okay. Promise me you’ll go out with us after the holidays when you can afford it.”

  “I promise.”

  “Good. I’ll hold you to it.”

  Their conversation came to an end now that they were inside the library. “See you,” Quinn said quietly as they split off.

  Nicole waved and strode toward the children’s section.

  As Quinn walked through the main reading room, she couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the table where James sat earlier in the day. The books were still there. He was not. The fact she was disappointed and annoyed only served to aggravate her more. Determined not to let it bother her, she tamped down her irritation, lowered her head, and marched toward her office.

  * * *

  The mail clamped between her upper arm and rib cage nearly dropped to the floor as Quinn unlocked the door to her Sherman Oaks apartment and pushed it open. She was plunged into darkness when she kicked the door closed with a foot. She immediately relocked the dead bolt and flipped the wall switch. The table lamp illuminated the living room with a warm, yellow glow.

  Rasputin blinked against the light and trotted toward her.

  “Hey, how’s the kitty?” She walked to the kitchen counter and dumped her purse, keys, and mail on it. After she slipped off her jacket and tossed it over the back of the couch, the cat rubbed his side against her shin and curled his tail around her calf. He looked up at her and meowed in greeting.

  She scooped him up and slung his front paws over her left shoulder. He purred in her ear. “You’re probably hungry,” she said and scratched his head.

  Rasputin’s nails gripped her shoulder as she carried him into the kitchen and retrieved from the refrigerator the can that contained the other half of the food she’d fed him that morning. After carefully removing his claws from the fabric of her top, she set Rasputin on the kitchen floor and picked up his bowl. A fishy odor wafted around her when she removed the lid from the can. Both sound and smell elicited impatient noises from the cat. She whacked the can against the side of the bowl until the food plopped out.

  “Yum. Salmon. Your favorite.” Quinn set the bowl on the place mat dotted with black paw prints and smoothed her hand over the cat’s back as he plowed into his dinner. Bits of food went flying, some of it sticking to the wall. “You eat like my brothers.”

  She opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water, then guzzled half of it in one breath and expelled a loud burp. “Monroe would be proud,” she said of the brother who had taught her proper belching technique when they were kids—which reminded her she hadn’t listened to her voice mail. She set the bottle on the counter, took her smartphone from her pocket, and touched the voice mail icon on the screen.

  “Quincy,” she heard her dad’s voice say in his usual brusque manner. Nearly everyone who ever interacted with her father was completely awed and intimidated by him. She knew underneath that gruff exterior, he was a big teddy bear. “Call us when you get home.”

  “Yes, Dad,” she said and deleted the message. She’d call him back after she ate dinner, as long as it was before eight o’clock. Anyone calling after that was a hooligan in her dad’s book.

  She turned on the TV, surfed around until she found a college basketball game, and listened to it while she changed into her flannel pajamas. Now comfortable and barefoot, she padded to the kitchen, stood in front of the open refrigerator, and considered her dinner options. When inspiration failed to strike, she moved and stood vigil in front of the mostly empty pantry. The idea of eating ramen noodles again made her scowl and she’d had a peanut butter sandwich for lunch. She finally settled on macaroni and cheese and took the box from the shelf.

  It wasn’t long before she flopped down on the beat-up couch and watched the game while she ate her dinner straight from the pot. Her oldest brother, George, first purchased the sofa when he’d furnished his apartment in law school. It had subsequently been passed from one sibling to the next until it now found its home with her. Its best days were clearly behind it, and Quinn didn’t even want to know about the origins of some of the larger stains that graced the upholstery. But the couch had been the right price: free.

  She refrained from eating the entire contents of the pot—she’d done that once before and the resulting stomachache was one she’d never forget. She put the leftovers in a plastic container. As a bonus to not giving herself a bellyache, she now had lunch for the next day.

  Once the dishes were washed, she snagged her phone and returned to her spot on the couch. She’d barely sat down when Rasputin jumped up and began to knead her thigh with his front paws. When he’d apparently come to the conclusion her leg had been sufficiently massaged, he curled up on her lap and purred. She dialed and idly rubbed the thin fur in front of the cat’s ears with her pinky and thumb.

  “Hello,” her father barked, his tone clearly questioning if the caller knew exactly what time it was.

  “Hey, Dad.” Quinn shot a look at the clock on the bookshelf against a wall. It was five minutes to eight. “Sorry I didn’t call earlier. I was really hungry when I got home and ate dinner first.”

  “That’s okay. Was it dark when you left work?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

 
“When you walked to your car, did you have your car key ready to use as a weapon like I showed you?”

  “I did.” The answer to his next question—they’d had the same conversation many times before—was already formed in her mind. Since her father was also a Marine, this kind of thing was part of her life.

  “What are your primary targets?”

  “Eyes and throat.”

  His tone softened. “That’s my girl. How was work?”

  “It was fun. Among other things, I had a high schooler ask where she could find Tequila Mockingjay. After some questions, I figured out she meant To Kill a Mockingbird.” Her interaction with James was definitely not something she wanted to talk about with her dad.

  “Glad you had a nice day.” He paused and Quinn heard her mother’s voice in the background. “Your mother wants to make sure you’re still coming for Grandpa’s birthday party this weekend.”

  “Of course I’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss it. He’ll only turn eighty once.”

  “Good. Just wanted to make sure since the whole crew will be here.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Really? Even Madison? I thought he couldn’t come.”

  “His gig fell through.” She stifled a giggle but still grinned at the exasperation in her father’s voice and pictured him rolling his eyes. “Maybe this’ll knock some sense into him and he’ll finally get a real job.”

  “Dad,” Quinn said in a warning tone while she heard her mother say, “Robert,” at the same time and in the same way. Quinn heard him blow out a breath. “No matter what he does, I’m supportive of his choices.”

  Quinn’s silent snicker at the rather rehearsed way her father made his declaration shook the cat on her lap. Rasputin’s eyelids were opened to little more than slits when he looked up at her and meowed in protest. Her gaze fell on the framed photo of her parents next to the lamp on the end table. “You and Mom have always been there for all of us,” Quinn said softly.

  “You’re good kids,” he said and cleared his throat. “It’s getting late and you should get to bed soon.”