“If you close one eye and squint, I suppose it might look like one. He’s a stray that let himself in. I’ve been feeding him and trying to keep anyone who might take him to the pound from finding our little stowaway.”
“Why don’t you put him in your basement library? It’s bigger than this room. And it’ll soon be filled with happy booklovers, who are often also cat lovers.”
“You know what? That’s a good idea.” Charlie seemed to be filled with helpfulness. I could see why Tori was so taken with him.
He smiled broadly. “Of course it’s a good idea. That’s the only kind I have. Here, let me help you move his bowls.”
“And his litter box, please.”
Charlie groaned, but carried the litter box and helped me get little Dewey set up in the secret bookroom. The lanky tiger-striped cat sauntered around the room, crouched low as if expecting some fearful monster to jump out of the shadows. He flicked his tail several times, sniffed a few of the books already on the shelves, and then leapt into one of the empty boxes. He circled around several times before settling down.
“Looks like he approves,” Charlie said.
I crossed my arms and smiled. “He’ll make a good mascot. I’d like to get some more books. If you can spare the time, I’d appreciate your help.”
His dark eyes sparkled, and he suddenly looked much less dangerous. “A worthy endeavor. I’m glad to be put to work.”
On our way to the reference section, we passed Mrs. Farnsworth. She was pacing the library atrium while complaining that the city workers were running late. “Punctuality is one of the cornerstones of civilization,” she told us.
We quickly piled books from the reference section into more boxes. I made sure to include several books on cat care. We were carrying two boxes apiece toward the back stairs when someone else called out to me.
“What now,” I mumbled and pretended not to have heard. I recognized the voice.
“Ms. Becket. Tru,” called the persistent detective. Heavy footsteps followed us.
“As you can see, I’m busy,” I said without slowing my stride.
“I’ll come with you,” Jace said.
I don’t know why I expected him to say anything else.
I stopped.
“Go on without me,” I whispered to Charlie.
“You might need me,” he whispered back before moving to stand right next to me.
In Jace’s defense, he did jog over to where we were waiting. He also asked if he could take one of the boxes. I politely refused.
“Is there something I can help you with?” I asked in my chilliest librarian tone.
“Yes, but—” he started to say and then turned to Charlie. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Do you work here, I mean, for the library?”
“No to both. I’m Charlie Newcastle. And you are?”
“Detective Jace Bailey,” I said before Jace had a chance to answer. I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to handle the introduction. Perhaps I’d picked up something about southern hospitality from all of those hours and hours of cotillion classes after all. Or perhaps I was worried that Charlie might say something that would make this particular police detective even more suspicious of my actions.
Crazy, right?
It wasn’t as if the two of us were doing anything suspicious at that moment—like carrying boxes of books down to the basement to put in my unauthorized collection.
A nervous laugh escaped. “The detective is investigating what happened here yesterday,” I explained.
Jace looked at the boxes we were carrying. His gaze narrowed with suspicion. “What are the two of you doing? I thought the city staff was coming to take these boxes away this afternoon.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Charlie said, completely nonplussed. “Do you mind if I set them down? Many people don’t realize this, but books are wicked heavy. Never pack your personal library into large boxes when you move your collection. You’ll never be able to get them into the room where you need them without unpacking the boxes at the front door, because that’s where the movers will drop them.” He set the boxes on the floor. “Don’t ask me why I suddenly know that.”
Since this was turning into a long conversation, I set the boxes I was holding on the floor as well.
“You still haven’t explained what the two of you are doing.” Jace propped his hands on his hips.
“Well, we . . . um . . . were—” I stammered.
“Didn’t I?” Charlie said at the same time. “How forgetful of me. It must be the time change and the move and all the work I’ve been doing on opening my new shop.”
“A shop?” Jace asked.
“Oh, yes, didn’t I already mention it? I’m opening a used bookstore right here on Main Street. It has always been a dream of mine, but one I hadn’t been able to manage until now. The rents on commercial storefronts in Vegas are prohibitively high. But then I heard about Cypress and how the town is working hard to grow into a center for innovation. I thought to myself, Why the heck not. So I sold everything in Nevada and bought the Tupper Building for practically nothing.”
“That doesn’t explain what you’re doing here,” Jace said.
“Doesn’t it?” Charlie smiled kindly. “I’m opening a used bookstore,” he repeated, speaking slowly, as if perhaps he thought Jace couldn’t understand Charlie’s flat accent. “Mrs. Farnsworth gave me permission to go through the books the library is disposing of and take whatever I wanted for my shop.” He tapped the boxes he’d set down with the toe of his leather shoe.
“Oh,” Jace said.
Oh, I thought to myself. Charlie was an expert liar. I wouldn’t have been able to come up with such a reasonable explanation for carting off so many books. But there was a problem with his lie. A big problem that would soon become my problem.
“What brings you to the library this afternoon, Detective?” Charlie asked. “Have you returned to search for more clues? Are you still questioning witnesses?” He spoke with the excitement of a man who watched too many mystery shows and had no personal attachment to our unfortunate town manager.
“Nothing so serious. Actually, I’m here on a personal errand.” Jace looked at me as he spoke.
I don’t know why that made me even more nervous, but it did. Perhaps it was because his brows were still slightly furrowed. Was he trying to puzzle out the flaw in Charlie’s lie?
“And what kind of errand would that be?” I asked.
“This.” He held up a small toy mouse. “I brought it for Dewey. How is our kitty doing? Did he eat?”
I felt the blood drain from my head at the sight of the toy mouse. He would want to see the cat. I couldn’t let that happen. Why had I moved him out of the maintenance closet?
“Thank you,” I said and snatched the mouse from him. It was made of wool and smelled kind of minty. “I’ll see that Dewey gets it.”
“How is he doing?” Jace reached down and picked up one of the boxes. “I hope he didn’t fuss about being locked up in a closet. Cats don’t like to be locked up.”
“He’s fine. I . . . um . . . I found him a bigger room in the basement. You don’t have to carry that.”
“I don’t mind.”
“It’s not your job.” I managed to wrestle the box away from him. “Thank you for the mouse. I’ll let you know how he likes it.”
Jace looked as if he was about to protest. But Charlie said something about wanting to get the books to his car and that he was then going to take me out to lunch as a thank-you. That last bit—another lie—seemed to do the trick.
Before walking away, Jace picked up the second box I’d been carrying and placed it on top of the first one in my arms. I stood there and watched with dread as the detective headed for the atrium, where Mrs. Farnsworth was still pacing. At the same moment, the city crew arrived to carry away the boxes.
Neither Charlie nor I said a word as we descended the steps. We remained silent as we set down our heavy loads. Once relieved of my burden, I crouched down and dangled the toy mouse by its long, woven tail over the box where Dewey had been napping. He reached up a sleepy paw and batted at it.
“I’ve already taken my lunch break. And you shouldn’t have lied to Jace about what we were doing with the books,” I finally said, watching Dewey repeatedly swat his paw at the mouse. “I’m sure Jace is asking Mrs. Farnsworth about your story right now. And with this murder investigation going on, he’ll think any lie anyone tells is suspicious.”
“It wasn’t a lie. Mrs. Farnsworth did tell me that I could take whatever books I wanted for my store.”
“She did?” I looked up at him. “That doesn’t sound like her.”
He was walking around, looking at the books that had already been shelved with an appraising eye. “I’m a charming guy. Women tend to say yes to me.”
“Perhaps too charming.” I didn’t like how he seemed to be mentally putting price tags on the volumes he occasionally pulled off the shelf. “You can’t have these books.”
He picked up a copy of The Maltese Falcon and whistled while his eyes widened with surprise. He pushed the book back into place, glanced at me, and quickly schooled his features. “Of course not. I’d never dream of taking any of these gems from you. As I’ve already told you, I’m honored to play a role—no matter how small—in helping preserve your town’s printed library. I’m on your side, Tru.”
After he’d left, I stayed and dangled the toy mouse for Dewey. I stayed hidden away longer than necessary, even though I knew I should have gone in search of Anne to question her. But I didn’t want to watch as the city crew carted off the books. Nor did I want to watch as Charlie picked through the boxes like a vulture in search of carrion.
Dewey had flipped over on his back and was going after the mouse with all four paws when a loud crash from above my head shook the room.
Not again, I thought before I took off running.
Chapter Nine
I shot upstairs at a record pace. My heart beat triple-time.
“What . . . what happened?” I demanded as I skidded to a stop in the reference section.
Charlie, who was on his knees as he dug through a box, jumped up. Anne frowned in my direction. And the city crew, who were loading boxes onto trollies, ignored me completely.
“Shh!” Mrs. Farnsworth scolded. She had positioned herself in the middle of the room and was directing the crew. “Decorum, Ms. Becket.”
“What happened?” I asked again, this time my voice pitched low, nearly a whisper.
“Everyone is doing their jobs,” Mrs. Farnsworth answered tersely. “Where have you been?”
“I . . . um . . . I was organizing the storage areas downstairs in case we wanted to store some of the furniture that won’t be used in the renovation.”
“Well, then.” Mrs. Farnsworth looked surprised. “That’s a good idea. But why are you storming in here like a schoolchild who has had too much sugar?”
“I heard a crash, and I was worried that . . .”
Mrs. Farnsworth clicked her tongue. “Those workers are careless. She pointed to a second crew of workers over near the media section. Boxes were scattered all around a tipped-over trolley.
“It’s just boxes. Thank goodness.” I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Thank goodness?” Mrs. Farnsworth bristled. The pearls at her throat shivered. She stopped herself before scolding me for, well, for whatever she thought I’d said wrong. “I suppose it doesn’t matter how they treat the books now. It’s not as if they’re ever going to be read again.”
“Sad, isn’t it?” I said.
“It is,” she agreed.
For a brief moment, Mrs. Farnsworth and I seemed to connect in a way we had never been able to before. As equals. As booklovers. As two people mourning the loss of a good friend.
“As you can see, there’s nothing amiss here.” Mrs. Farnsworth cleared her throat. “You may go back to clearing out the downstairs. I’m sure we’ll soon have plenty of furniture that will need to be stored.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. But instead of returning to the basement, I veered over to where Anne was pacing the length of the reference section with a clipboard in her hand.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“Uh, Tru!” She pressed the clipboard to her chest and backed away from me. “What are you up to?”
“I’ve been working in the basement. I came up to check on things after hearing a crash. It was just the handcart toppling over, but I was afraid that, well, after yesterday that . . . you know . . .” I said with a grimace. “And you?”
“I’m checking on locations for wiring.” She pressed the clipboard even tighter to her chest.
“Wiring.” I’d spent hours with patrons in this area of the library, helping friends and relatives research genealogies, look up medical information, or calm frantic teens in search of source materials to include in term papers due the next day. “What’s this room going to become again?”
Anne’s eyes lit up. “This will be our makerspace.”
“A maker-what?”
“There will be state-of-the-art 3D printers over there, web-connected sewing machines along that wall, and long worktables down the middle of the space. Walls will go up over there to create four additional rooms. One will be for digital photography and movie production. Another will be used for audio production. The third space will be used for robotics. And the fourth space will be a hacker’s lab.”
“A hacker’s what?”
“I know. Everyone reacts that way when they hear the word ‘hacker.’ It sounds shocking on the surface, but if we don’t teach kids the ethics of hacking when they’re young, we’ll lose them forever. It’s like encouraging a young Lex Luthor to use his genius for good instead of evil.”
“Lex Luthor?” None of the kids who came into the library even remotely resembled a super-villain. Sure, there was Berry Jamison and his tendency to try and steal the graphic novels instead of checking them out. But I tried to cut him slack. His parents had misspelled his name on his birth certificate and had never gotten around to changing it from Berry to Barry. And being called Berry in middle school would be difficult for any boy.
“Did you not understand my example?” Anne said with a look of concern. “I tried to pick a vintage archvillain so you’d know what I was talking about.”
“I’m not that much older than you,” I pointed out.
Her tan cheeks turned a deep red. “I thought that you were . . .”
“Yes?” I said when her voice faded away before she tried to guess my age. I was disappointed. I truly wanted to know which dinosaur era she thought I was from.
“You do know who Lex Luthor is, don’t you?” she asked instead.
“I may have heard of him a time or two. I am a librarian. Locked in my head are references to the characters of Beowulf, Jane Eyre, and all of Hemingway’s classics, as well as the heroes and heroines appearing in both the DC and Marvel universes and the major manga comics. It is my job to know all of these things. And when I don’t know, I can find the answer. I’m the female equivalent of Doctor Strange.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize.”
“People rarely understand what librarians do.”
“Well, you won’t have to keep that kind of information in your head anymore.” She sounded so chipper, as if she were about to tell me something I would love to hear. “In the new database, a patron can look up books using nearly any keyword, including character name, setting, or even a memorable line from a book. All you’ll have to do is show people where to sit at one of the terminals and turn them loose.”
“I see.” Where would a librarian’s skill fit in with all of this computerized madness? Our collections
were going to be subscription-based, curated by Mrs. Farnsworth with Anne’s help. Anne had also been given the task of maintaining the makers’ labs and equipment. And I’d given myself the task of cleaning out the basement, which would be completed in a few days. After that? Where would my skills be needed in this hyper-technological library? I was afraid the answer would ultimately be “nowhere.”
“I love how you’re removing the personal touch,” I said sarcastically. “Heck, we could shut our doors completely and simply let people access books from their phones at home. There’d be no need for anyone to ever leave their home.”
“That’s the goal,” she chirped.
She must have noticed the unhappy look on my face. She quickly dampened her enthusiasm.
“I just don’t understand all this fuss about these library books.” Anne pointed to a box that one of the city workers was lifting. “Printed books are relics. The production of paper is an environmental disaster. What I’m doing here is part of the green revolution.” Her eyelids snapped as she blinked excitedly. “In fact, I don’t even read. I listen to podcasts and stream videos. That’s the future anyhow. No one has time for reading, or for books.”
I had to bite my tongue to keep myself from saying what I thought of that. Oh, I dearly wanted to argue with her. I wanted to tell her that she didn’t know everything. I wanted to shout that she was wrong. Dead. Wrong. More than ever, the world needed printed books.
But I didn’t shout.
My future job security or my anxiety about what technology was doing to communities wasn’t what I needed to talk with Anne about. I mentally straightened my imaginary sleuthing hat, narrowed my gaze, and said slowly and calmly, “What did you tell the police this morning?”
Anne spun away from me. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Please, don’t be coy with me. Everyone heard Chief Fisher shout to Detective Bailey that I needed to answer some very important questions based on what you told them about me. All I want to know is what you told them. Certainly, it’s not a big secret.”
The Broken Spine Page 7
