“Because . . .”
“Little Ida rode her bike past him this morning and rang that fancy bell on the handle bars to warn him. But Dwight being Dwight, he jumped ten feet and splattered coffee all over his new suit.” She looked at me speculatively. “And . . .”
Now this was the Sandy I knew and loved, waiting for me to finish the deduction. “And . . .” I concluded, “Dwight being Dwight, now it’s war on kids enjoying their own public park?”
“Right, Chief. That’s what it looks like. You know he’s been in a bad mood since last fall’s reunion.”
I would never forget Dwight’s expression as he realized his old humiliation could be traced to Ham Bigelow’s ambition. Ham had gotten rid of his rival for the state senate by making Dwight look incompetent. Twenty years ago Dwight had been busy barfing in the bushes instead of guarding the high school mascot and symbol of Mossy Creek’s honor. That stolen ram was the first link in a chain of events that ended with a fire that destroyed the high school.
The loss of a high school is hell on your political capital.
Probably didn’t help that Dwight irritated Battle Royden enough that the former chief finally roared, “Sorry doesn’t get it done. Now does it, Dwight?” Half the town had quieted down just in time to hear those words. The news anchor from Bigelow heard it, too. Got it on film. Battle’s question made a good sound byte.
I tried not to smile at the memory. It just wasn’t neighborly, but I couldn’t help it. Dwight never had been very good at getting people on his side. “I do have to admit that solving the mystery of the fire was political, if not poetic, justice.”
Sandy grinned and slapped an empty file folder against her thigh. “It was a moment to savor. Yes, indeed, it was a moment.”
“I imagine another moment will be watching him face-off with Ida over kids using the park.”
“The smart money’s on Miss Ida,” Sandy advised.
I didn’t even try not to smile as I headed for the door. “My money is always on Ida.”
My thoughts were on her more often than not as well, but I didn’t volunteer that information. I considered it “need to know” only. And nobody but me needed to know.
THE TOWN LIBRARY is a modest concrete-block building without fancy stonework or architecture. It’s the hodge-podge kind of building that says, “We spend money on books, not bricks.” Still it’s a solid building, bigger than a town our size would normally have. Right before I moved home, we were the fortunate recipients of a tidy estate left by the Sisters Grim. The two spinsters, Sadie and Sarah Grim, had reveled in their little literary pun during the last years of their spinster lives and extended the joke by leaving all their money to the library. The town, in turn, reveled in their legacy.
Until the details were revealed.
The terms set the town on its ear. I understand Dwight’s were the most irate set of ears in the bunch. I wish I’d been here to see those fireworks. According to the executor of the estate, Mac Campbell, the city fathers and mothers had no control over the money. Every decision about what to spend and how to spend it was given to Hannah Longstreet, our full-time librarian, who’d suddenly become a very important person without ever meaning to.
The Sisters Grim figured that only someone working in the library day in and day out could truly know what the town needed to bring its library closer to the county branch “showplace” over in Bigelow. Then they figured they needed someone strong like Mac to face down the town. And the sisters were right. The town (Dwight) didn’t have a clue. He pressured Hannah to make cosmetic changes and improve the facade. Dwight wanted to turn the library into an imposing, impressive institute of learning that would project the image of a progressive and growing Mossy Creek. To give the man credit, he did try to camouflage the completely cosmetic aspect of his proposal by swearing we needed to widen the door anyway for better handicapped access.
Since the library already happily accommodated anyone with special needs—including book deliveries to shut-ins—Hannah ignored Dwight and used the money as she saw fit. She decided we needed more space for a proper children’s section and kid-sized furniture. Also on her list were a decent heating and air-conditioning system; serious additions to our large-print and audio title collections; and a computerized system with two terminals for patrons to use for research on the internet.
But her pride and joy took her last bit of legacy money. She had an idea for a “local interest” room, which meant she also needed the archival materials necessary for preserving the important historical records of the area—diaries, journals, old maps, auction catalogs, school year books, newspapers and articles, published quilt patterns, letters home from soldiers, Sue Ora’s old first drafts of manuscripts and unpublished stories, and even fund-raising cookbooks from the local churches. Katie Bell’s research for Lady Victoria put the bug in Hannah’s ear about how important our history was. She wanted anything that related to what it meant to be a part of Mossy Creek. Once she put the word out, donations for the collection had happily exceeded her expectations.
She knocked down a wall and added another eight hundred square feet to the library. The new footage was mostly space for the children and computers, but some of it was for her local room. During the entire renovation, Dwight stood right beside her telling her how short-sighted she was to care about the inside of the building and about whether the patrons were comfortable in the summer heat when, Heaven help us, the outside of the building was just rotting away!
Standing in front of the building, I took a good look. I didn’t see any rot—concrete rarely rots—but I did see a number of cars in the parking lot and two pre-teens leaving with several books each. Hannah’s plan seemed to be working quite well. In fact it probably irritated the snot out of Dwight. For the second time today, I smiled at his expense.
The girls thought I was smiling at them, so they giggled and nodded as they passed me. I grabbed the door before it swung closed and slipped inside. I’d half expected the call to be about some summer troublemakers with too much time on their hands. At least I was uncharitably hoping for some troublemakers. Zeke could use some help weeding the park flower beds. That’s where my troublemakers always ended up. I haven’t had a kid yet who’d rather have me call his parents down to the station than do community service.
But, today, I didn’t see any obvious candidates for our flower-bed chain-gang. There were no children running like heathens through the stacks. No shrieking laughter. No loud talking. But neither was the library deathly quiet. There was a pleasant hum about the place, a quiet purpose.
I scanned quickly for Hannah, found her several rows of books away and looking down an aisle. She was a bit younger than me and had been a widow for a few years now. I couldn’t remember how many.
Her small, black-rimmed glasses were shoved up on top of her head, messing up a short blonde ’do that was actually cut so short the cropped style should have made her look masculine. Except that Hannah Longstreet couldn’t look masculine if she tried. Even with short hair and in khakis. No one ever asked me, but if they had, I’d have told them it was her eyes. Enormous, bottle green and smiling. Yep, smiling. And soft. Like she was always glad to see you. No doubt about it. The eyes put her squarely in the “girlie girl” category.
She had a pencil stub tucked behind one ear. Her arm was part-way up, and her finger was raised. I expected her to bring it to her lips and make the classic librarian “shushing” sound at someone farther down the aisle. Instead she slowly turned her hand and crooked her finger in summons. I moved close enough to hear what she said.
“What did I tell you?” she asked the aisle, hands on hips. Nice hips. This was a librarian who worked out regularly and expected an answer pronto. “Well?”
Two voices. One mumble. One whine.
Hannah glanced at me with a half-grin and motioned for me to give her a minut
e. Then she turned back to her culprits. “Speak up, and don’t you be making those puppy-dog eyes at me. Well . . . what did I tell you?”
The culprits slithered into view. One of them quite literally. On his belly, his head never far from his paws. He was a medium-haired, medium-sized, motley-looking, splotchy-colored mutt. When he rolled over in submission, gravity gave him a kind of doggie grin that made it clear he wasn’t the least repentant. I laughed.
Hannah turned on me, not too far from laughter herself. With an effort she managed to look stern and reprimand me. “Do not laugh at them. You will only encourage them.”
I straightened up and said, “Yes, ma’am.” Librarians almost always had the moral high ground.
“We’re sorry, Miss Hannah.” The boy wasn’t even looking at her. He’d dropped down on his knees to give the mutt a tummy rub with one hand. The other held a book. “I know you said we had to stay in the office if I wanted to play with him, but I saw Caralee nosing around the summer reading books and I had to go get my last book before she stole it. Daddy’ll be mad if I don’t get my reading finished this week. He says I have to work starting next week. Won’t have time to read. You know I can’t come back much. And if I don’t get it done, I won’t get to have my name on the fund raiser thing.”
When he looked up, the first detail I cataloged was the bruise on his left cheek. Like he’d been backhanded by an adult. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I hated it when intuition kicked in without true evidence; always put me squarely in that gray zone I hated so much.
He had to work? Intuition kicked me again. I was beginning to feel like a punching bag. Intuition slammed me again. “Punching bag” was a bad analogy in this situation.
The kid was maybe nine-years-old. Freshly scrubbed face, brown hair, a freckle or two and wearing old, but fairly clean hand-me-down clothes. I didn’t have kids, but I’d seen enough hand-me-downs in my lifetime to spot them, the way they never quite fit because another body had broken them in, stretched them out in all the wrong places.
Hannah leaned over and touched his cheek. Just below the bruise and casually drawing my attention to it. Great. Hannah wanted to be sure I saw it. I wasn’t imagining things.
“Clay, sweetie, I can bring books to your house. I take them to lots of people.”
“Daddy don’t like people coming to the house.”
Well, that settled it. I’d be making a social call on Daddy. Whoever Daddy was. “Hannah, aren’t you going to introduce me?”
“Love to, Chief. This is Clay Atwood, my favorite kid. Next to my own little girl, of course.” The boy smiled at that. Then Hannah moved on to the dog. “And this is . . . d-o-g.” She spelled it, just like you spell ice cream in front of three-year-olds. “He’s why I called. He wandered in this morning like he lived here. No one’s ever seen him before. He’s as sweet as pie, but I had to put him in the office because he kept trying to herd all the kids into one group in the corner.”
“Herd?”
“Yeah. At first I wasn’t sure he was doing it on purpose. But then every time I looked up he’d managed to quietly nudge another one of the kids into the growing group in the corner. He was so intent on it and did it so well, and so many times . . . I did a little research. The best I can tell he’s an Australian Cattledog. Or at least enough of one that it’s splitting hairs to figure out what other genes he’s carrying around.”
I looked at the heap of over-grown puppy on the floor. He looked like a mutt, and then again . . . he didn’t.
“Dog?”
Dog bounced up immediately and re-deposited himself devotedly at my side, one paw gently resting on my boot, his eyes watching me intently for a command, any command that he could slavishly perform. I had an overwhelming urge to warn him not to get attached to me—he wasn’t staying.
“Look at that, Chief!” Clay said. “It’s like he knows he’s your dog now. You are so lucky. Is he going to be your police dog and round up criminals? Or maybe rescue people? Here boy, smell my hand so you’ll remember me when we have an earthquake. I saw a rescue like that on TV once.” Clay was clearly impressed that he might know a police dog.
“I don’t think so, Clay. For one thing, we hardly ever have to use earthquake dogs around here. Besides, he’s too friendly to be a stray. I imagine he belongs to somebody. Heck, there may be a tourist looking for him right now. Why don’t you take him outside near my truck in case someone is driving around looking? I need to ask Miss Hannah a few questions and then I’ll be right out. Can you handle that, Special-Deputy-For-The-Day?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Show her your book first so she can check it out.”
He held his book up for a split second and then ignored the adults. “Come on, Dog. Let’s go catch criminals.”
I opened my mouth to caution him, but Hannah put her hand on my arm. “Let him go,” she whispered. “He won’t get into any trouble. Not here.”
So, we were back to the bruise. “I think we need to go in your office, Hannah. Have you got a minute?”
“Sure. I have my summer intern covering the circulation desk.”
I followed her. “You wiggled budget money for an intern out of Dwight’s tight-fisted little hand?”
“No, I think Ida and Sue Ora beat it out of him.”
“Ah.” I grinned. “Makes sense. I hear there’s likely to be another showdown at this special council meeting he’s called.”
She waved me into the small office and shut the door. “I hate that I’m going to miss it. Got to go over to Bigelow for a library services presentation. I need the continuing ed hours.”
I waited for her to scoot around the desk before I took a seat in the old, oak school chair nearest me. On the wall behind her squares of fabric clung to a flannel sheet tacked to the wall. I’m not an expert but I’ve seen a few quilts in my day. This was some kind of quilt—in pieces and on a wall, but it was still a quilt. As quilts went, this one was pretty snazzy, bright colors and patterns with oddly blank patches—more sandstone than toast—scattered evenly over the design. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that you’re a quilter, Hannah.”
Laughing, she swiveled around to survey the collection of fabric on the wall. “Yeah, that’s a quilt in progress. It’s my summer reading program reward. If the kids read all the books on my list for their age group, they get to put their name and a favorite quote on the quilt.”
She reached to straighten one violet-colored piece and then turned back to me. “When all the spaces are filled, I’ll finish it up. Then we’re going to display it in City Hall for a month this fall and auction it at Autumn Fest as a fund raiser for the library.”
“Clever.”
“I liked the idea.” She pulled the glasses off her head and tossed them on the desk. A signal that she was ready to get down to business. I jumped right in.
“Clay’s afraid his Daddy’s rules will keep him from getting a spot on the quilt.”
“Right.”
“Most parents would dance naked in town square if it’d get their kids to crack a book. And this guy is putting up road blocks for his kid. How often is Clay bruised?”
“Not often enough for me to report it.”
“But too often for you to be comfortable?”
“Yeah. And it’s the location of the bruises. I can’t quite explain it. I see other kids with bruises. I have one of my own—the sweetest, clumsiest child on God’s green earth. I know kids, but something about Clay worries me. Once he had some bruising that I would have sworn was from fingers squeezing his arm. I did ask him about that one. He said an old window fell on his arm while he was filling up the bird feeder outside it.”
I leaned back and thought for a moment. “That’s a pretty good lie for a kid his age to come up with. May turn out that the reason it’s so good is that he was
telling the truth.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t think it’s the truth or even his lie. And neither do you.”
“I don’t think anything yet, Hannah.”
“Yeah, you do, or you wouldn’t be talkin’ to me. Clay’s not clumsy. Never bangs into anything when he’s here. I’ve got high hopes for him as an intern when he hits junior high.”
“Okay. I’ll check around, but I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention this to anyone. This is an informal investigation at best. I don’t even know if the Atwoods are in my jurisdiction yet. If my checking comes to nothing, I don’t want a family smeared by gossip.”
“Understood. I’ll leave it to you.” To fix.
The unspoken words hung in the air. She was leaving it to me to fix. She was way too confident for my peace of mind. I used to see that kind of faith in Battle. People thought nothing about dropping their suspicions in his lap and leaving him to untangle the threads of the problem. No one ever gave a thought to whether Battle had the authority. They just expected him to handle it, and he did. With or without bending the law.
Now they were looking to me.
I stood up to leave. “Any other problems you want to hand me while I’m here?”
She grinned. “Nope. That pretty much clears my list for today, but I can probably think of a few more by tomorrow if you have some slack in your schedule.”
“Uh huh. I just bet you could.” I let myself out.
PEELS OF LAUGHTER rolled over me as soon as I exited the library. Dog and Clay were catching criminals by wrestling in the small patch of grass bordering the front shrubs. Dog was winning, poking his nose into every uncovered tickle spot Clay had and sending a new scream of laughter into the air with each poke. As soon as I stepped onto the walkway, Dog’s head came up. He put a paw on Clay to hold him there and looked straight at me.
Woof? (Do you need me?)
Hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I understood him as clearly as if he’d been speaking English. He wasn’t my dog. I shouldn’t be able to decipher his barks. He shouldn’t be that aware of me. I didn’t like this at all.
Summer in Mossy Creek Page 2
