The Alexandria Inn, which my husband of just a few months, Stone Van Patten, had named after me, had been restored from an old Victorian mansion in ill repair into a thriving lodging establishment, a charming bed and breakfast in the small town of Rockdale, Missouri. We had both enjoyed the challenge and the hard work we’d poured into the project.
My name is Alexandria Marie Starr, by the way, but I’m known simply as Lexie. At fifty years old, I was enjoying being a newlywed, having recently married Stone, the second love of my life. I’d also enjoyed the challenge of running the inn, efficiently and effectively, which had been filled to capacity nearly all spring and summer.
But now it was late October, and business was waning as people stayed home and anticipated the approaching holidays. I felt like I was rattling around aimlessly in the huge inn, which encompassed half a city block. I liked the idea of getting an opportunity to use the skills I’d acquired as a volunteer librarian assistant in my old hometown. I’d had to give up that endeavor when I moved to Rockdale right before our wedding, because it would have been a long commute of over an hour each way.
“You know, Stone, I think I might just see about putting in for that job. I’d be out of your hair and have something to do to fill my spare time. Obviously, I couldn’t apply for the permanent position, because of the nature of our seasonal business, but filling in during the interim would be fun and challenging. And the timing couldn’t be any better. They will surely have hired a permanent head librarian by the time we get busy in early spring. Are you sure you wouldn’t mind me being gone during the day?”
“Of course not,” Stone said. “I know you’re happiest when you’re busy, and this opening at the library is the perfect solution. After all that happened this last spring, you could probably use something more tranquil and less nerve-wracking to do with your time.”
“That’s for sure. Having Pastor Steiner killed just days before our wedding, and having to find a replacement in such a short time, while investigating his death, took a lot out of me,” I agreed.
“And it, no doubt, took ten years off my life just from worrying about you,” Stone said. He had still not completely gotten over my insistence at becoming involved in the search for the pastor’s killer. I wanted to change the subject before we got embroiled in a debate about my reckless impulsiveness, a character trait I’d finally learned to live with, but one Stone was still trying to accept and get accustomed to. I’d surely given him plenty of opportunities to work on that lofty goal.
“I think I’ll head over to the library this morning,” I said, just as Detective Johnston came in through the back door of the inn.
I would soon find out there would be little tranquility to be found working at the local library. If only I’d known what I was about to get myself into, I may have just stayed home and rewashed those clean bedclothes, or spent the day watching the wallpaper fade in the parlor, while ingesting entirely too much caffeine as I was prone to do.
Chapter 2
While chatting with Detective Wyatt Johnston over one final cup of coffee, I mentioned my plan to apply for the interim head librarian position at the Rockdale Public Library.
“I wondered when you were going to find something to do to cure the restlessness you’ve developed. I’ve gained ten pounds in the last two weeks,” he said, as he popped an entire oatmeal cookie into his mouth. Obviously, he had noticed my symptoms of boredom too. Even with no customers at the inn, I’d been baking enough pastries, tarts, cream puffs, and fruit pies to feed an army of Wyatts.
“Speaking of which, I have a fresh pineapple upside-down cake cooling in the pantry for you to take home for you and Veronica. And, by the way, Stone has threatened to have you issue me a restraining order, not allowing me to get within fifty feet of the oven,” I said.
“Yeah, I can see why,” he replied, glancing at Stone. “He may have gained even more than I have.”
“Twelve pounds and counting,” Stone said, patting his slightly protruding belly. Two or three inches below six foot, Stone tended to be slightly too short for his weight. As he had a habit of saying, he wasn’t overweight, just under-tall. But at just five foot two, and a few pounds over my ideal weight, I had a tendency to be under-tall as well.
“Patrolling all over Rockdale on a daily basis, I hear a lot of things, Lexie,” Wyatt said. “I’ve heard the Meals on Wheels organization is looking for drivers to deliver meals around town, and the nursing home on Spruce Street is always in dire need of extra help. Just something to keep in mind if the librarian job, for some odd reason, doesn’t pan out.”
I nodded in response, knowing there was no way on earth I could volunteer at the nursing home. It took a special kind of person to work at one, and I was pretty sure I wasn’t quite that special. I couldn’t walk from one end of a nursing home to the other without crying, puking, or both. I had a weak stomach as it was, and something about a nursing home made my stomach roil, and really tugged at my heartstrings. I wanted to visit with every single resident I passed, and sneak them, in their wheelchairs, out the back door, if possible, as if I were breaking them out of prison. I knew nursing homes served a valuable purpose, but I’ve never seen a resident of one that seemed truly thrilled to be there. It was if they had just resigned themselves to reside there while they waited patiently for the inevitable. I knew I’d find it sad and depressing, and I’d opt for boredom before those two emotions. However, the Meals on Wheels idea was definitely feasible. If I could manage to fit a few meals into my little sports car, I could certainly deliver them to disabled and elderly folks around town. It would be very self-satisfying to help the senior citizens who were unable to prepare meals for themselves, and feed the less fortunate.
“Thanks, Wyatt! That’s good to know, because there’s a good chance they already have someone in mind for the library job.”
“They do,” he said. “You!”
“What do you mean?”
“I ran into Bertha Duckworthy, the head librarian, the other day, and she told me she was going to retire, on or just after the last day of October, if she could find someone to fill in by then. I told her you had volunteered as a librarian assistant for a number of years, and she asked me to mention the opportunity to you the next time I saw you. I was going to do that today, but Wendy obviously beat me to it!”
“Thanks Wyatt. It sounds promising, doesn’t it?” I asked.
“It’s right up your alley, and you’re a shoe-in for the job, Lexie,” Wyatt answered. “She’d hoped you apply for the permanent position, but I told her the likelihood of that was remote due to your work here at the inn.”
“I’m going down to the library this morning to speak with her. What did you say her name was again, Wyatt?”
“Her name is Bertha Duckworthy, but most people just refer to her by her nickname, Ducky.”
“She goes by Ducky? She sounds like she must be a real character.”
“She’s one of a kind, all right. She’s the type you either love or hate, but to me she’s just Ducky,” Wyatt answered. “I think you’ll get along with her just fine as long as you remember to take whatever she says with a grain of salt, and try not to take any of it personally.”
I wasn’t sure what to make of Wyatt’s advice, but I was anxious to go speak with Ms. Duckworthy, so I told the men to enjoy their day at the RV and Boat Show, and excused myself to go change into something other than the well-worn sweatpants and Miller Lite tee shirt I was wearing. I wanted to make a good first impression and this outfit hardly screamed, “Hire Me!” It more likely made the statement, “If you give me the job, I promise I won’t chug beer until I’m off the clock.”
* * *
Half an hour later I was in my blue convertible heading to the library, dressed in a knee-length pastel yellow dress, trimmed with black piping, and my brand new terribly uncomfortable, black leather heels. I knew there would be a critical reason I’d need to wear them when I bought them last week.
I�
�m not sure why, but I’d even chosen to put on a pair of pantyhose, which I detested and normally only stooped to wearing to funerals and weddings of people with whom I was very close. I also slipped on some dangly earrings and a matching emerald necklace Stone had given me for my birthday. It had been years since I’d applied for a job, and I didn’t know the current dress code for such an occasion. Plus, it was important to me to make a good first impression on Ms. Duckworthy, and I didn’t want to look like I’d just come from the gym, or a weeklong camping trip.
As I introduced myself to the head librarian a few minutes later, I knew I had over-dressed for the occasion. Ms. Duckworthy was wearing an old pair of baggy, faded jeans that ended several inches above the top of her beat-up hiking boots. She also donned a stained, light blue sweatshirt that had a Kansas City Royals 1985 World Series Champions emblem on the front and was frayed around the collar. To complete the ensemble, she wore an Isle of Capri Casino ball cap.
The head librarian had short salt and pepper hair, more salty than peppery, and wore thick horn-rimmed glasses. She was several inches shorter than me, probably an inch or two shy of five foot, and couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds. Yet, for some odd reason, I instantly felt very intimidated by her, as if I were introducing myself to a drill-sergeant on the first day of boot camp.
“I’m Lexie Starr, Ms. Duckworthy. I believe Detective Wyatt Johnston spoke to you about my experience as an assistant librarian in Shawnee. I volunteered there for several days a week for a period of almost four years. He told me you were retiring and looking for someone to fill in as acting head librarian while applicants were being interviewed for the permanent position. The detective thought it might be right up my alley, and actually I was looking for something to do in my spare time while business at our bed and breakfast was in a seasonal slump,” I said. As I babbled on, she stared at me like I had “village idiot” tattooed across my forehead. “So, um, anyway, I guess I’ve come to speak to you about the position and apply for the job.”
“Really?” she asked. “I thought maybe you were on your way to a cocktail party, dressed in that fancy get-up, and all.”
I laughed nervously at what I thought was meant as a joke. She didn’t laugh, smile, or show any emotion at all. I turned slightly to my left, on the verge of walking right out of the library, and back to my car, knowing my face was flushing in embarrassment. I took a step toward the door when Ms. Duckworthy’s next words stopped me in my tracks.
“Okay, lady, you’ve got the job,” she stated. “When can you start?”
“But, don’t you want me to fill out an application, or, perhaps, be interviewed first?”
“Naaa, the cop’s word is good enough for me. It’s just temporary after all, so you don’t have to be the sharpest knife in the drawer.”
“Well, then, Ms. Duckworthy, I guess I can start whenever you’d like me to.” I wasn’t sure if I should be insulted by her “sharpest knife” comment, so I chose not to be, since I really did want the job, and Wyatt had suggested I didn’t take anything Ducky said personally. “Tomorrow’s Tuesday. Will that work for you?”
“Yeah, that will work fine. I’ll see you tomorrow morning around nine. Don’t be late. I’ll want to show you the ropes for a few days before I leave you on your own. This library ain’t much different than any other library, but your responsibilities here might be somewhat more diverse than what you’re used to,” she said. “So don’t go thinking you know everything there is to know about running a library.”
I nodded. “Oh, yes ma’am, of course. I only worked as an assistant, so there are a lot of things I’ll need to learn, but I promise I’m a fast learner.”
“You’d better be,” she retorted. “I’m not planning on baby-sitting you for very long. I’d like to be out of here by Friday, which is Halloween, if at all possible. Bring a notebook with you to take notes so I don’t have to repeat myself.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And put that dress back in the closet and pull out something you can work in, like I got on,” Ms. Duckworthy said, with a touch of sarcasm in her voice. I made a note to myself to come to work tomorrow looking like I’d just come from the gym, or a weeklong camping trip, as I’d tried so valiantly not to do today.
“Yes, Mrs. Duckyworthy, no problem there. This is not how I typically dress.”
“Thank God! And one final thing, don’t every call me ma’am or Mrs. Duckworthy again, and don’t even think about calling me Bertha. Bertha makes me sound like an old lady. It’s just Ducky from now on.”
Chapter 3
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” I said the next morning, taking notes as I sat next to Ducky, who was pecking around on the computer keyboard. She’d told me she had a requisition form she needed to fill out and fax to the main office before she continued “jacking around” with me.
“What did you call that cataloging software again?” I asked.
Ducky looked over the rim of her reading glasses for a few moments before answering. There was a menacing arch to her eyebrows. This was the second time I’d asked her to repeat herself, and I’d gotten “the look” both times. I’d hesitated to ask her to repeat herself again, but it was important I knew the correct name of the software program required to get the job done properly. I’d rather get the look a hundred times than screw everything up once Ducky left me on my own.
“What’s another word for quantity?” Ducky asked, a few minutes later.
“How about number?”
“Naa, try again.”
“Amount?”
“Yeah, that’ll work.”
For a moment, I thought she might be working on an online crossword puzzle, but quickly realized she wasn’t the type to spend her time at work so frivolously. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, this antique keyboard is a piece of crap,” she answered. “The ‘B’ key sticks and you have to hit it repeatedly sometimes to make it work, and the “Q” key is completely defective and doesn’t work at all. I’ve put in a work order for a new keyboard every week for the last two months and haven’t received one yet. My boss is a piece of work, I’ll tell you. He’s one of the main reasons I’m retiring.”
Keyboards are cheap enough, I thought, so I made a quick notation in my notebook to purchase a new one with my own money as soon as possible, so I didn’t have to use my copy of Roget’s Thesaurus every time I made entries on the computer. I wondered for a moment if I’d be working directly for Ducky’s superior. It stood to reason I would, and now I was not all that anxious to meet this man who would have authority over me. I shook off my trepidation and continued to concentrate on everything Ducky was explaining about the cataloguing software program I’d be using.
After another hour of computer tutoring, Ducky led me over to the large-print section of the library. I noticed, despite her petite size, she walked with the heaviness and clumsiness of an inebriated elephant. Her outfit today was even tackier than the one she’d worn the day before. I had dressed-down significantly, but there was no way I could show up to work at the library in clothes so cruddy that even Goodwill would turn their noses up at them if I attempted to donate them. I was relieved when Ducky had made no comment after giving me the once-over when I walked into her office. She’d merely shrugged and pointed to a hook where I could hang my jacket.
Ducky started out by introducing me to Paul Miller and Carolyn Aldrich, two part-time employees, already busy with their responsibilities. Paul, who I guessed to be in his early thirties, was helping a customer find a specific book she was searching for in the rear of the library. I could tell instantly he was a man of few words. After telling him I was pleased to meet him and looked forward to working with him, he merely nodded, shook my outstretched hand, and turned his attention back to the customer he’d been assisting. Paul’s muscular frame and large stature reminded me of Detective Johnston. He absolutely dwarfed Ducky, and looked like he should be employed at the local lumber mill instead of working a
t the library.
Carolyn, a gregarious local college student, was sorting returned books into categories to assure putting them back in their given places would be more efficient. I knew instantly I would enjoy working with her, and hopefully Paul, as well. Carolyn welcomed me to the library, and we spoke for a few minutes about nothing in particular. As we meandered away from Carolyn, Ducky muttered under her breath. I could only make out a few words, and “chatterbox” was one of them, so I knew whatever she’d said was not complimentary. I didn’t know if she was referring to Carolyn or me, but I really didn’t care either way.
Following the introductions, Ducky gave me an abbreviated tour of the building. It was an older lodge-styled, cedar-sided structure that looked as if it belonged in the Colorado Rockies next to a rippling trout stream. We started in the basement, which was dark and musty, with no windows and only a few light bulbs scattered about. There were quite a few boxes, no doubt filled with old library books, and a metal shelving unit with cleaning supplies on each shelf, and a wet mop, dust mop, and broom leaned up against the concrete wall.
Ducky told me an elderly man named Tom came in on Tuesday and Friday nights to do custodial work in the library and that Tom had been cleaning the library since he’d retired and moved here from Kentucky four years ago. He did contract work, cleaning a number of businesses around town in the evenings.
In the far corner of the basement was a shiny weight-lifting apparatus that looked to be fairly new. There was a bare bulb hanging on a chain above it, providing the only source of light in the area.
“Are you pumping iron in your spare time?” I asked Ducky, in jest.
“Of course not!” She answered, not amused by my teasing. “I let Paul put that down here a few months ago. He works out here sometimes after work. He’s been such a reliable employee for all these years, I figured letting him use it down here was no big deal. He and his girlfriend live with her folks in a small apartment, and they don’t have room for it at their place.”
Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 05 - Just Ducky Page 2
