The Broken Spine

by Dorothy St. James

  “I know.” That stupid screwdriver—if only I’d put it back in the shed.

  “Just . . . just . . .” Fresh tears welled in Mama’s eyes. She grabbed my hands in her crushing grip again. “Tell me, Tru, that you didn’t do it. Tell me you didn’t do something rash.”

  “How could you think that I—?”

  “Because you have your father’s personality,” she nearly shouted. “Rash. Passionate. Quick to argue.”

  “No, that’s not who I am.”

  “See. There, you asked me for my opinion and then shout that I’m wrong.”

  “I didn’t do anything.” I twisted away from her and picked up the cabbage before she could get her hands on it again. “Please, Mama. I appreciate your concern. Truly, I do.” I shoved the cabbage back into the fridge, where it belonged.

  “I’m going to hire you a lawyer first thing in the morning,” she declared. “Gary Larsen. We went out a few times. He’s got a sharp wit. And I heard he got Maggie Fenton’s daughter out of trouble when she went on that bender and crashed her car into a tree. That family has a history of, well, you know. It’s amazing that he was able to help that girl at all. I’ll call him.”

  “I’m sure that’s not necessary—” I started to say.

  But she wasn’t listening. “No matter what you do, promise me you won’t talk to the police again without your lawyer by your side. Especially not with that Bailey boy. I heard from Gwynne Hansy how that boy came back to Cypress with his tail tucked between his legs. He did something that got him into all sorts of trouble with the NYPD. Gwynne didn’t know what, but she did know that that boy is set on proving himself. You don’t want to be the one he runs over to show he’s not a screwup.”

  “Can I help with anything?” Charlie asked as he came into the room with a glass of wine. He winked at Tori before handing the glass to my mother. She took a sip of the amazing wine, smiled, and gave me a nod of approval.

  “I’m going to make the four of y’all a proper meal,” Mama said with a twinkle in her eye. “You know, something that’ll actually go with this wine.”

  “Wine is a forgiving drink,” Charlie said. “In fact, I know a brand of champagne that pairs perfectly with popcorn.”

  If I’d said something like that, Mama would have lectured me on the importance of keeping an eye on fat and sodium content. With someone as handsome and male as Charlie, she laughed her flirty laugh.

  “Popcorn.” She swatted him on the arm and gave another tinkling laugh. “Now where is that cabbage?”

  Tori blocked the fridge while I tried to maneuver Mama back toward the living room. “Watch the movie. It’s a rom-com. You love those.”

  Charlie had started to join us in trying to talk Mama down from her health-food mania when his phone chimed. He frowned at the screen. “I’d better take this.”

  He stepped out the back door.

  “Mama, I’m not letting you cook for me. It’s Friday. It’s time to relax. Besides, we already ate enough pizza to keep us full until tomorrow night.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said with a huff. “And I’m still not convinced that you didn’t push that—”

  “That was the police.” Charlie returned to the kitchen with his phone still in his hand and a look of confusion on his face. “Someone has broken into my bookstore.”

  Mama gasped loudly. “Murder and robberies? What is happening to our town?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. I wondered if Duggar’s murder and this robbery were somehow connected.

  How could they be connected? a snarky voice in my head hissed.

  Charlie was shaking his head. “The police officer said the shop’s front window had been smashed and the boxes of books that I’d taken from the library were all emptied out.”

  “I knew it!” Actually, I didn’t. But I clapped my hand against my leg anyhow. “There’s something about those old library books that we don’t understand. Perhaps something worth killing over.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Cypress’s library remained closed to the public over the weekend and into the next week while workers put up new walls, ran new wiring, and installed all sorts of electronics and computer terminals. It was all cutting-edge technology and took time to set up.

  I spent the time in the basement vault going through the boxes of books we’d saved, searching for a clue as to what about them might drive someone to kill and to steal. All I could figure out was that they were priceless books, at least in my mind. Was there someone out there who shared my passion for them? Someone who wouldn’t think twice about killing? Someone like Mrs. Farnsworth?

  Charlie had reported to us on Saturday morning that none of the books at his shop had been taken during the break-in. They’d simply been tossed out of their boxes.

  “Could someone be looking for a piece of paper that had been slipped into one of the books?” Flossie had wondered the following Monday as we all worked together in setting up the secret bookroom. I’d sneaked my friends into the library through the basement’s back door. “It could be an incriminating letter or a—”

  “Treasure map!” Tori exclaimed. She pulled a book from one of the shelves and started leafing through it.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would anyone put a treasure map in a book around here?” Flossie scoffed. “We’re not near the ocean, and there’s no history of pirates within a fifty-mile radius of this place.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a pirate map. It could be a map that has been handed down through the generations and hidden right here under our noses.” Tori pulled another book off the shelf to look through it. “Tru, didn’t Mama Eddy say Duggar’s family once owned a mansion in Charleston? If it were a pirate map, there are plenty of tales of pirates associated with that historic city.”

  “She did say that,” I said thoughtfully. “And there were pirates in Charleston.”

  “But why would anyone stick a priceless map into a book here?” Flossie said. “This place is public. It’s even in the name: Town of Cypress Public Library.”

  “Maybe the killer was hiding the map from Duggar or from someone else who knew about it. You have to admit that would be reason enough for murder,” Tori said. She’d pulled yet another book off the shelf to search. “In my experience, people turn into vicious monsters when there’s even just a small amount of money to be fought over. It’s enough to make someone want to do something drastic.”

  Was my friend alluding to some personal experience? I paused from filing cards into the card catalog and used my finger to save my spot for a moment. “Is everything okay with you, Tori?”

  “Just talking,” she said with a laugh. “People can be terrible.”

  “That’s the truth,” Flossie mumbled. “Anyhow, I saw Charlie had the sign up for his shop. The Deckle Edge, very clever name for a used bookstore. When will he have his grand opening?”

  “Not for at least another week. He still has to get a few more government permits. I’m helping him with the paperwork.” Tori looked over at me. “Are you sure you’re okay with him selling the books Mrs. Farnsworth let him take from the library?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Well, he wanted me to ask you. He said you seemed pretty tense when he was here picking them out.”

  “He helped me carry more books to our secret library. It was a decent thing to do.” Even so, I bristled at the memory of him picking through the library’s books. None of the books should have left the library. “I suppose I’d rather those books went to his shop instead of the landfill.”

  “That’s Charlie, as decent as they come,” Tori said, smiling broadly.

  “So unlike your regular type,” Flossie teased.

  “That’s the truth.” Tori shook her hips. “But his wicked good looks make up for all that depressingly good behavior of his.”

  We a
ll laughed.

  Quietly.

  We were in a library, after all.

  * * *

  • • •

  Over the next several days, I searched through every book we’d carried down to the basement vault. I searched for anything interesting: a stray piece of paper, a romantic note, or even a treasure map. There were grocery shopping lists, old receipts, and one bubblegum wrapper. None of it was worth killing over.

  Upstairs, the library’s doors remained closed to the public as Anne set up the equipment. She gave lessons to the rest of us on how to use the new electronics and machines like the 3D printers.

  I spent my time upstairs trying to create a role for myself in the newly renovated library. My main contribution to the library that week was explaining to library patrons who banged on the front door why I couldn’t let them in until the renovations were completed. Our library, up until this past week, had only ever closed its doors on major holidays and Sundays. Not even Hurricane Hugo or the big snowstorm of 1988 had caused a disruption to its operating hours. Mrs. Farnsworth had seen to that.

  When I wasn’t at work, I kept a healthy selection of salvaged library books in a tote bag. Wherever I went, whether to a garden club meeting or a lady’s lunch, I handpicked books to bring with me. For instance, I knew Mrs. Rochester would want a book on growing camellias. Mr. Clayton loved reading about vintage cars. Lottie Hayworth devoured historical romances.

  I told everyone that I was personally loaning out the books, a white lie. They all came from the secret bookroom. Whenever someone took a book, I’d write their name down along with what book they took. I’d then ask that the book be returned to me in a few weeks.

  My process of bringing the library out to the reading public seemed to be working well. By the end of each meeting I attended, my tote bag was almost always empty. And the town’s loyal readers were wearing the most pleasant grins. No one questioned where the books I carried came from. People on the street started to call me “the human bookmobile,” which I thought was cute, until someone mentioned my new nickname to Mrs. Farnsworth.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Shortly before the end of the workday on Wednesday, Mrs. Farnsworth stopped beside the circulation desk and sighed. Her shoulders slumped forward a bit.

  “Long day,” I said, sharing her feelings of exhaustion.

  “A human bookmobile, Ms. Becket?” Her lips formed a perfect moue of displeasure. Did she practice frowning in a mirror? Or did the talent for freezing others with a simple look come naturally to her?

  I shrugged while pretending I wasn’t shivering in my sensible flats. “Just trying to help out while the library is closed. It’s amazing how many people rely on our services.”

  Her brows flattened. “You’ve not been happy here, have you?”

  “About this, you mean?” I gestured to the wall of computer terminals directly behind me. “No, I’m not happy about it. Removing the books was a mistake.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “You haven’t done anything in protest, have you?”

  My cheeks suddenly flamed. I pressed my hands to them before realizing that I was drawing additional attention to my skin’s own admission of guilt. “In . . . in protest? What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.” The relentless press of her stern expression made me want to crawl under the desk.

  I forced myself to look her in the eye. “I’m worried about what happened . . . with Duggar. I think the library needs to install security cameras. We need to make sure our patrons feel like this is a safe space, or else they’ll stop coming.”

  “I’ve had the same thought. But you didn’t answer my question, Ms. Becket.”

  I sighed. “I did protest the library’s renovations as vehemently as you did, not that it did any good. I’m not ashamed of it. I’m not going to apologize.” And if she was going to accuse me of setting up a secret bookroom downstairs, she was welcome to do so. However, I would not, absolutely not, hand that information over to her.

  “I’m not asking you to apologize,” she said. “I’m asking if you—”

  “Mrs. Farnsworth, do you mind if I interrupt?” Police Chief Fisher asked as he approached us. He was smiling like an underfed hound dog that had just been handed a juicy piece of meat.

  Neither Mrs. Farnsworth nor I was surprised to see him. During this strange time in the library’s life, Police Chief Fisher and Detective Ellerbe from the state law enforcement agency stopped by every day to ask questions. They often showed up shortly after I put on the morning coffee pot. I had started to suspect they came more for the freshly roasted beans I would buy from Tori’s café than to investigate.

  I hadn’t seen or heard from Jace since he’d confiscated my screwdriver. I’m not sure I could have acted as cool around him as I had been acting with the police chief and Detective Ellerbe. My mind seemed to turn all mushy whenever Jace was looking at me, which irritated me to no end.

  “What do you need, Jack?” Mrs. Farnsworth snapped.

  “I . . . um . . .” He looked at the floor like a chastened child. “I need to have a few words with your assistant.”

  “I suppose we can finish this conversation tomorrow. I’ll be heading home, then. Be sure the door is pulled shut tightly and the latch clicks when you leave.” Mrs. Farnsworth headed for her office to fetch her purse. “Good night, then,” she whispered on her way out.

  The door’s lock clicked behind her. She gave the door a wiggle to double-check the lock before walking toward her car.

  The police chief continued to watch me with that hound-dog grin.

  Never one to enjoy staring contests, I sighed. “What is it?”

  “Detective Bailey showed me what he found in your house last Friday.”

  “Did he? The way he’d acted, you would have thought he’d discovered a bloody knife. It was a screwdriver. I imagine you’d find one in nearly every house in this town. We’re handy people here in Cypress. You know that.”

  He chuckled. “He said it was sitting out as if it’d recently been used.”

  “It was. Did he also tell you that my kitchen table was broken? I was trying to fix it.”

  Fisher nodded and let the silence spread between us.

  “If I were going to loosen bolts at the library, why in heaven’s name would I bring in my own tools when the library has a full set on hand in the maintenance closet in the basement?”

  His smile faded. “Do you think we’re idiots?”

  “Do you think I’m an idiot?” I countered. His neck reddened, and I immediately regretted it.

  “We know all about the tools in the basement closet. Had a tech team on it the morning of Duggar’s death,” he said.

  “Good,” I replied.

  “Not good.” More silence. This time I didn’t feel an urge to fill that silence. “There was just one tool missing. Do you want to guess which one?”

  “Not really.”

  “The tools in that closet are the same brand and age as the one Detective Bailey took from your house,” he said, while appearing to watch me closely for my reaction.

  “I’m not surprised. It’s a popular brand. The former owners of my house left that screwdriver in the shed. They’d lived there since the fifties. And the fifties is the last time the library had the funds to procure things like new tools.”

  “The girl has a point,” Detective Ellerbe said as he approached the circulation desk. He gave Fisher a nod and then moved to stand next to his colleague. “There’s no way to prove the screwdriver came from the library’s set.”

  “It didn’t,” I interjected.

  He gave another measured nod. “Which is equally impossible to prove. What we have is an impasse. Someone who works in the library killed the town manager. The only workers present that morning were the elderly Mrs. Farnsworth, the technologically dexterous Anne Lowery, a
nd you—someone who vehemently protested the town manager’s efforts to modernize this place.”

  “Modernize? No, what he’s done has destroyed—”

  Ellerbe raised an eyebrow. My outburst was only proving why I should remain their number one suspect. I needed to tamp down my passion for the library books, as if that were even possible.

  “We weren’t the only ones in the library,” I reminded them.

  “Really?” Ellerbe slanted a glance toward Fisher.

  “Really,” I said in a rush. “The mayor and his son were also here.”

  Fisher barked a laugh. “You expect us to believe that either our upstanding mayor or his son, who’d not lived in this town for nearly a decade, had something to do with Duggar’s death?”

  I shrugged. “They were present that morning.”

  “And they were together,” Ellerbe said. He took a step toward the desk where I was sitting. “Their alibis are solid.”

  I stood up. “What do we really know about Anne? Perhaps she killed Duggar for a reason we don’t yet understand. Have you considered that the break-in at the used bookstore is connected to Duggar’s murder? It happened the day after the owner took books from the library into his shop. Perhaps the killer is searching for something hidden in one of the books. Perhaps Duggar had interrupted that search.”

  Ellerbe breathed out slowly. “That sounds rather fanciful. In my experience, motives are never so complicated.”

  “Besides,” Fisher said, “Duggar was found in the media section of the library. There wasn’t a book in sight.”

  He did have a point, darn it.

  “And I suppose you cleared Mrs. Farnsworth because of her age?” I asked.

  “The woman is tipping toward eighty,” Fisher said.

  “That may be so, but she’s also as strong as someone half her age and has a temper that leaves even the bravest in this community shaking in their britches.”

  “She is rather formidable,” Ellerbe agreed.