Murdermobile (Portland Bookmobile Mysteries)

by B. B. Cantwell

  “Yes, the society does run the show,” Hester replied. “We're not as big as the County Library and we don't get the pay or benefits they have, but we do have a little more autonomy. The county gave up its bookmobiles because they were a money loser.”

  “Where does the City Library get its money?” Darrow continued.

  “Oh, there’s a levy. They, uh –” She shook her head and fixed him with a quizzical gaze. “Excuse me, but I’m a bit confused. What do library finances have to do with your investigation? I mean, Miss Duffy had been retired for three years.”

  Darrow looked out the ice-covered window and could see the first of the brave few attempting to walk the slick sidewalks. “Well, I’m new to town, Ms. McGarrigle. I need to learn in a hurry as much about the library and Sara Duffy as possible if I’m going to find her killer.”

  The word “killer” sent a cold shiver down Hester’s spine. “How was she, uh, killed?” Hester finally asked. She thought back to the curious, numb moment when she had opened the bookmobile cupboard. She’d glimpsed Miss Duffy’s normally bluish hair tinged with pink, almost like Mrs. Barrymore’s wig. Except for the dark red, almost black, stain near the crown of her head...

  Darrow finally swallowed a dry chunk of pastry and interrupted Hester’s grim musings.

  “Can’t really say yet. Autopsy might tell. We’ll have a better idea of just what we’re dealing with then.”

  “Well, let’s see then, about our funding...” Trying to wipe from her mind the gruesome image of the autopsy, she put down the remains of her cinnamon roll.

  “We have a city-wide levy every four years, and we have endowments. The Friends of the Library is a very strong fund-raising group in this town. Luckily, they pick up when government lets us down. The Friends contribute a big chunk of our book-buying budget. In fact there was just an article in the paper about how they raised a quarter-million dollars in their New Year’s gala at the Heathman Hotel. It’s a huge costume ball, something they do every year, very fancy. And let’s see, the county gives us some money, too. We supply library service within the city limits and they pick up the rest of the county, except for a couple of bookmobile runs we do for them up into the Columbia River Gorge.”

  “How does someone join the Literary Society?”

  “By being born into one of the pioneer families, or marrying in, I think.”

  Darrow stared hard at Hester. “An aristocracy?”

  It was Hester's turn to laugh aloud. “You really are new to Portland if that’s a surprise.” Without waiting for a comment she continued, “I'm sure some of them feel that way, but most of the society members just find the business of the library a burden. A small faction has been lobbying to get rid of the present system and merge us with the county for years, but it'll never happen. Too much money and artwork to fight over.”

  “And what about this other group, Friends of the Library? Do you have to be a big cheese to become a ‘Friend,’ too?”

  “Oh, no, anyone can join. I think it’s $25 and you get a bumper sticker. But of course, The Friends also court people who have money. I understand they set it up on a sort of subscription basis with members who can afford to give a certain amount each month. Sort of like public television, you know? A good friend of mine is active in the Friends. Personally, I just can’t find time. I figure I’m doing my part by just showing up for work some days,” Hester said with a defiant smile.

  She added a dollop of hot coffee to her mug. Darrow shook his head when she raised the carafe his way.

  “But now that I think of it, Miss Duffy went to all the Friends meetings, even after she left the library. Rumor was she had money stuffed in a mattress, though somehow I can’t imagine her parting with much of it to the Friends, unless it came with pretty tight strings attached as to how it would be spent.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  Hester quickly explained the late librarian’s strong opinions on library materials. Grunting, the detective scribbled more notes.

  His coffee finished, Darrow pulled himself out of the comforts of the old leather chair and struggled to his feet. “Thanks for the coffee and your time, Ms. McGarrigle.”

  “My pleasure. But once anyone has dunked stale baked goods with me, they have to call me Hester.”

  “Oh, OK. Hester.” He allowed a corner of his mouth to flicker upward.

  From the other chair, the until-now softly snoring cat chose that moment to stretch – the entire yard of him, from nose to tail tip – and loudly pule at Hester.

  “Why, Bingle T., you cranky old thing, you’ve decided to grace us with your company, eh?” Hester gathered the 28 pounds of feline fluff into her arms. Turning back to Detective Darrow, who was staring in open amazement at the huge cat, Hester explained, “Originally I named him after Bing Crosby, he was such a crooner. The initial ‘T’ came later, for ‘troublemaker,’ because he is one. But he’s a lovable complainer. Usually that means he wants crunchies.”

  Hester plopped the cat into the small kitchen and poured some fish-flavored Kitty-Os into a bowl on the floor. She returned as Darrow stepped to the door.

  “Do you always start your day so early?” she asked. The radio was just starting the 7:30 news.

  “Start? I'm not ‘starting,’ I'm just finishing up!”

  The door closed and Hester went to the window to watch the detective leave. She craned her neck, went back to her coffee, and then looked again. Nobody exited the building.

  “Well, fishbreath, what do you make of that?” she asked her fuzzy companion. “Better yet – ” she paused to again scoop up the cat, kissing him on the nose – “what do you make of him?”

  Chapter Five

  Nate Darrow's visit rushed the events of the previous day back into Hester's mind. The images seemed blurred and unreal until she picked up the morning paper, finally delivered at noon. Then the situation focused sharply.

  “FORMER LIBRARY DIRECTOR MURDERED” screamed The Oregonian’s headline. “Sara Duffy, Portland City Library’s longtime director who retired amid charges that she censored her own collection, checked out for good Monday. A librarian found her bludgeoned body in a back cupboard of the city bookmobile.”

  “Bludgeoned.” Hester said the word aloud and shivered. While she couldn’t miss the red stain to Miss Duffy’s hair and the bloody hand prints smearing the cupboard door, Hester’s quick glimpse had left her only one clear impression: that somebody had roughly crammed the retired librarian into the tight cupboard as if she were an old, patched coat. Her good dress was badly rumpled. Though Hester had had her share of philosophical differences with her former boss, at least in life Miss Duffy had always fiercely strived to maintain her own dignity. In death, she’d been robbed of that.

  Hester squeezed her eyes shut in a confusing cloud of sadness and anger. How could a human being hurt another person that way – especially someone who looked so much like Hester’s difficult-to-love but well-meaning Great Aunt Hilda?

  She read all the vile details. She read herself quoted, although she didn't remember saying quite those things. She read with embarrassment how she had “swooned” upon finding the body.

  Hester put the paper aside and took a deep breath. Needing a dose of routine comfort, she decided to risk a walk to the corner grocery for a few essentials, chocolate pudding being high on the list. She dug from the closet her father’s old tasseled golf shoes. Embarrassing though they were, she found the cleated, size 13 saddle shoes – filled out with an extra pair of thick wool socks – perfect for walking slippery sidewalks on silver-thaw mornings.

  On her return from the icy outing, a curious scene: An old Volvo sports coupe, rusty chains on its rear tires, its trunk agape, straddled the curb. Nate Darrow struggled with a large cardboard box on the front steps of her apartment building.

  The Luxor wasn’t one of the more anonymous buildings in the neighborhood. The Egyptian motif, complete with King Tut sarcophagus figures framing the doorway and adorning every
corner, was quite the rage in the 1920s, Hester was sure. The three shallow steps had been heavily salted and were clear of ice. Hester reached the top of the steps first and held the door for Darrow.

  He smiled a thank-you, the weight of the box having robbed him of breath. Once inside he eased the box against a carved stone elephant-foot planter to reposition the bulk in his arms. In the tiny foyer, the faint smell of his sweat competed with tangy bay rum. Darrow had taken time to shave, Hester noted.

  “Going somewhere with that?” Hester asked, her curiosity no longer containable.

  “Just moving in, as a matter of fact.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Popadopolis's old apartment?”

  “Yes, I think someone mentioned that an old Greek lady used to live there.” Darrow paused a moment. “She didn’t die there did she?”

  “Oh, goodness, no. She left for Happy Heaven Hills retirement villas, out in Beaverton.” Mrs. Hera Popadopolis was a recent widow and had lived for 30 years in the south apartment on the fourth floor. With her husband's will through probate and her children urging her to enjoy herself, she’d packed her belongings and gone to play pinochle and bridge to her heart's content. “I got a card from her last week. She won the door prize at the seniors’ line-dancing contest!”

  Hester stopped. “Sorry, I’m babbling again, and you must be exhausted.”

  Nate shook his head, then slowly nodded. “I’m a little fried. Catch the elevator for me, would you?”

  When constructed, the Luxor boasted all the modern conveniences, even an in-house phone system, for which an ancient speaking tube was still affixed to Hester’s kitchen wall. Little had been updated, as Darrow discovered when he tried to fit his box into the broom-closet sized elevator with its accordion-cage door.

  Hester held the door and Nate thundered the big box into the tight space. “Thanks! Sorry there’s no more room.” As the outer door closed, he looked back with an arched eyebrow and called, “Nice shoes, by the way.”

  As the elevator shuddered up the shaft, Hester trudged three musty flights up to her own door, her thoughts turned away from pudding.

  As she turned her key, Hester realized she was humming the lilting “Mister Rogers” theme song, drummed into her head from the days of babysitting her three-year-old niece: “Oh, won’t you be my neigh-bor?”

  “Get a grip, Hester,” she muttered with an embarrassed smile, and clicked the door shut behind her.

  Chapter Six

  Grand Central Library’s massive doors opened and Wednesday’s 10 a.m. rush pushed past the large, ornately-carved mahogany information desk. Hester knew that none of these early birds needed assistance with library directions. These were the regulars. None of them even noticed the faded grandeur of the well-trodden marble floor or the huge marble columns reaching 40 feet to the gilded ceiling. These were the retired folks from around the corner, along with street people in to use the restrooms and find shelter from the bitter Northwest winter, or at-home mothers with small children eager to enjoy the next story hour. To them, Portland’s main library was a second home.

  Behind the first onslaught, a small group of professional-looking men and women headed straight up the graciously curving staircase to use the latest business materials, as a determined group of polyester-trousered women marched into the genealogy room.

  Hester suppressed a smile. She missed her bookmobile, but this temporary reassignment had its fascinations, if only in the diversity of people roaming the halls of Grand Central.

  Her temporary assignment to the quick-reference desk in the lobby of the main library was a bit like being thrown to the lions, Hester thought. The idea of a librarian coming in to Grand Central from a branch or the bookmobile without any training and being able to direct patrons and answer their questions was mind-boggling. Finding the right book or periodical in the rambling old edifice was a bit like navigating a haunted mansion, complete with secret passages and hidden panels. Fortunately, Hester was also an avid library user and knew her way around Grand Central, although she had some doubts about the convoluted directions she had just given to a man looking for the map room.

  Looking up, Hester saw Karen White hurrying toward her, looking as ever like the naughty school girl who never gets caught.

  “Is it really true?” Karen exclaimed. “Is the wicked old witch really dead?”

  “Karen!” Hester was appalled as Karen’s question echoed against the marble. “Keep your voice down.”

  “Oh, you always were the goody-goody,” Karen bit back, primly pleased with herself. “Besides, there’s nobody around.”

  Hester was relieved to realize this was true. The first wave of patrons had dissolved into the library like spindrift on a winter beach. Then Karen’s brow furrowed. She leaned over the desk, put a hand on Hester’s and whispered, “Oops. Sorry, Hester, I forgot you were the one to find her.”

  Hester nodded as she recalled Monday’s events. Puffing out her cheeks, Hester was about to give Karen a carefully edited version of the story when a disturbance in the Children’s Room erupted into the foyer from their left.

  Three stout matrons wearing huge coats and carrying Walmart shopping bags were being pursued by Linda Dimple, the children’s librarian.

  “You may not remove any books from the Children’s Collection without checking them out!” the slight, blonde librarian announced in as commanding a tone as her squeaky voice could muster. “And you may have only three books by the same author!”

  The ladies steadfastly ignored her and beat a hasty path to the front door. Here their way was blocked by the checkout desk, straddled by electronic security panels that set off a buzzer when an unchecked book passed them.

  Linda Dimple was out of patience. “You are REQUIRED to empty your shopping bags at this desk,” she shrilled, dashing ahead of the three and blocking the exit with her outstretched arms, displaying all the fervor of a 1960s protester blocking a campus doorway.

  This was clearly not what the trio expected. The leader of the group, the stoutest of the three and the eldest, held a wrinkled hand to the temple of her rhinestone-rimmed spectacles and spoke up indignantly.

  “We are the Women Who Care About Children and we insist that the library remove all Teri June books!” Her voice cracked with intensity. “We will not be stopped!”

  “So who’s going to go limp and throw themselves in front of the door first?” Hester whispered to Karen, who watched with her lips pursed.

  But while the leader put up the brave front, the two followers had second thoughts. One, a woman of about 35 with long braids and glasses, emptied her bag on the counter. Her haul included eight Teri June novels, a dozen paperback young-adult romances and five sci-fi fantasy books. Her companion also emptied a loaded bag. Seeing her troops give in took the fight out of the ringleader. She shoved her own bag of books on the wood-grain counter as she grabbed her accomplices by the elbows. The trio bolted past Linda and out of the library.

  “Did you see that?” Karen hissed at Hester. “The gall of those people.”

  Hester tried to peer over Karen’s head to see which way the trio had gone and was rewarded by the vision of a grim-faced Marge Kenyon entering the building. Annoyance played across her face as she stormed into the Children’s Room.

  “What on earth did they think they were doing?” Hester asked in amazement.

  Linda Dimple directed a clerk to collect the books from the checkout counter and reshelve them in the Children’s Room. She walked over to the information desk.

  “Did you get a good look at those three?” she asked.

  “Not really,” Hester confessed. “They looked pretty ordinary. If they come in together again, I’ll spot them.”

  Linda was not pleased. “This is the second time they’ve done this. The first time they got away with it. They just walked in and took about 10 Teri Junes. With what happened to old Duffy, you might think they’d give us a few days of peace!”

  “Linda!” Hester scolded. She to
ok a deep breath and let it go. “Watch what you say. The woman’s dead.”

  Linda hung her head. “I know, I sound awful. But you know half the staff isn’t exactly in mourning. Science and Business sent out for doughnuts this morning. Jelly-filled.”

  Looking toward the exit where the WWCAC trio disappeared, Hester reconsidered what Linda had said a moment earlier. “So just how many books has Teri June written?”

  “Oh, you mean different stories? Only about eight, but we have multiple copies of them. They are so popular, with the preteen girls especially, we can hardly keep them on the shelves. We just bought 10 of each in paperback.”

  From behind Linda a clerk wearing an expression like a frightened mouse hurried over from the Children’s Room. “Linda,” she whispered, almost out of breath. “There is a woman demanding to see you.”

  “Demanding?”

  “I think she’s one of those WWCAC people.”

  Linda closed her eyes for a moment, straightened her back and strode off purposefully.

  “She’ll get eaten alive,” Karen said, watching the back of the youthful looking Children’s Librarian disappear behind a timeworn cutout of Oscar the Grouch peeking from a cardboard garbage can next to the entrance.

  “If I had the money, I’d bet on Linda,” Hester said, sitting back. “She looks like a kid herself, and that’s what makes her so popular in there. The kids have no problem asking her for help and she is so open and friendly the parents just love her. But at the same time, she is an absolute stickler for the Library Association Bill of Rights. Anybody trying to censor her collection is facing a brick wall. And the Library Board backs her up.”

  “But why target Teri June?” Karen asked. “There are lots of really crappy books in the young adult section, why not go after quality of writing?”

  “Oh, come on Karen, you’ve read her stuff. Your girls are her biggest fans.”

  “Yeah, but there isn’t anything in them that girls don’t have to know about or don’t already know parts of. I should think getting the facts of life straight would be important to ‘Women Who Care About Children.’ Growing up today isn’t the same as it was 100 years ago,” Karen argued, her round cheeks flushing.