The Broken Spine

by Dorothy St. James

  I could think of a reason why Charlie didn’t call her. And I hated myself for thinking it.

  Why couldn’t he have given me a Nancy Drew mystery as a clue instead of The Maltese Falcon? I understood Nancy Drew books. They were as straightforward as . . . as . . . well . . . as a trusted friend. A friend who’d never consider murder a means to solving a problem.

  Perhaps Luke did kill Duggar after all.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Being wrong had never felt this good.

  Luke was guilty.

  Case.

  Closed.

  That afternoon, while Flossie watched over the secret bookroom, I used my lunch hour to rush home and feed Dewey. As I munched on forbidden fried cheese with horseradish dipping sauce that I’d picked up from the local fast-food joint, the Grind, Dewey carried over the toy mouse Jace had bought for him and dropped it at my feet. We played fetch with the mouse. Dewey ran so hard and so often, bringing back the mouse each time I tossed it, he actually started to pant.

  “You fetch like a dog, and pant like a dog. Are you sure you don’t have canine roots?” I asked him.

  He gave me a squint-eyed look that suggested he didn’t find my sense of humor funny.

  “Okay. Okay. You’re all cat. Perhaps we should take a break. Besides, I need to get back to the library.”

  Dewey looked over at his carrier and meowed.

  “Sorry, little guy. Maybe tomorrow you can come with me. I need to make sure Anne isn’t searching around for you.”

  I was putting my leftover fried cheese into the fridge when someone knocked. With a trilling purring sound, Dewey ran to the front door. I closed the fridge and followed.

  “Anne said you had gone to lunch, and I remembered you’d said I could find you here,” Jace said, after I’d opened the door. He smiled down at Dewey.

  “We just saw each other at the library.” That was why I kept the screen door closed between us.

  Dewey yeowed and scratched at the door.

  “He’s got a healthy set of lungs on him,” Jace said, peering through the screen as he tried to get a better view of my kitty. “I saw you posted ‘Found’ signs around town.”

  My heart pinched at the thought that I might have to give up my little kitty. I’d only had Dewey for a little over a week. It amazed me how attached I’d grown to him. He filled my house with his happy purrs, making it feel like a home. Cat or not, he was already part of my family.

  “I should have posted the notices sooner. I hate to think someone out there is missing him.”

  Jace nodded sadly, which made me feel uncommonly defensive.

  “It’s the right thing to do.” Were the posted notices the reason for his visit? “You . . . you’re not here because someone is missing their cat, are you?”

  He held up his hands. “No. No. No.” He smiled down at Dewey again. “I imagine it’ll be hard to give him up if someone comes forward. He’s a special little guy.”

  As if agreeing, Dewey batted at the screen door again, which was odd. He never batted at the screen, not even when he’d chatter at the birds frolicking in the trees in the front yard.

  “Stop that,” I said, worried his sharp claws would put a hole in the mesh.

  “Are you going to invite me in?” Jace asked.

  “I don’t think so.” Dewey batted at the screen door even more vigorously. I gently nudged him away from the door.

  “I want to talk about the investigation,” Jace said.

  “You said it yourself. There isn’t an investigation. Not anymore.”

  “Tru, please.” He closed his eyes as he drew a slow breath. “I know we’re not friends, but you are the only one in this town who seems to agree with me that Fisher has arrested the wrong man.”

  I propped my hands on my hips. “I don’t know, Jace. The more I think about it, the more sense Luke’s arrest makes. It doesn’t take a detective to see that Luke was in trouble. People make mistakes all the time. And sometimes those mistakes lead to even bigger ones.”

  “You know Luke didn’t kill anyone. He’s an easy scapegoat. I don’t have a clear picture of what might have happened in the library that morning. But I have a feeling that you do.”

  “You think I’m withholding evidence from the police? That’s a serious charge, you know. I think I need to contact my lawyer.” I started to close the door.

  Dewey had other ideas. He gave the screen door a hard push with his tiny paw and managed to wedge it open wide enough that he could squeeze his skinny body through. I tried to stop him, but my little scamp moved too fast for me.

  With a muttered oath, I tossed open the screen door and ran after him.

  Not that I needed to run. Instead of dashing away, Dewey went no farther than that pushy detective. He rubbed lazy circles around his jeans-clad legs.

  Jace crouched down to pet my naughty cat. “I still can’t get over those unusual markings. It sure looks like he has a skull on his head.”

  “If you say so,” I grumbled. “What do you want me to say to you, Detective?”

  He sighed. “I don’t know, Tru. The truth?”

  He picked up Dewey and cradled him in his arms as he straightened. His blue eyes searched mine for a moment. “Perhaps coming here was a mistake.” He tried to hand Dewey over to me, but my confounding cat dug his claws into Jace’s black T-shirt and held on tight.

  I don’t know why, but Dewey’s affection for Jace made me feel cranky. “If Fisher didn’t think there was enough evidence against Luke for Duggar’s murder, he wouldn’t have arrested him. This is the mayor’s own son we’re talking about. The chief of police likes his job. Don’t you think he would make doubly sure he was right before acting against the man who signs his paycheck?”

  “Tru,” Jace said quietly, “you’re hiding something about the town manager’s murder. Please, tell me what you know.”

  I hesitated a moment before shaking my head. “Give me Dewey. I need to get back to the library. My lunch break ended about ten minutes ago.”

  One by one he pried Dewey’s nails from his T-shirt and handed my kitty over. “We don’t have to be enemies, Tru.”

  “We don’t?” As much as I wanted to think I’d grown past all my old high school hurts, I had to admit I hadn’t. “I think, maybe, we do.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Fisher might think this investigation is over,” he said as he walked away, “but it’s not. Not for me. Not until the murderer has been caught. You’re hiding something, Tru, and I promise you I’m going to find out what it is you’re too afraid to tell me.”

  * * *

  • • •

  When I returned to the library, I found Mrs. Farnsworth sitting at the circulation desk.

  “Are you okay?” I asked her.

  “You’re late,” she growled as she pushed the chair back from the desk. “Your lunch break ended sixteen minutes ago.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” I gathered all my courage and asked her what everyone in town had to be wondering. “Is it true that you remembered seeing something on the morning of the murder? Did you see Luke do something suspicious? Is that why Fisher arrested him?”

  She stood, her posture as straight as a flagpole. “I don’t suffer gossip, Ms. Becket. You should know that better than anyone.” Despite her scolding manner, her lips quivered. Her hands trembled.

  “What happened down at the police station?” I asked, feeling suddenly alarmed.

  “Nothing. Tell anyone who comes in here talking about Duggar’s demise or today’s arrest that I don’t allow gossip in my library. Tell them they’ll either have to keep their tongues locked behind their teeth or they’ll have to leave.”

  Was she serious? The library had always been a hub for gossip in Cypress. People came not only to pick out a new book to read, but also to pick up the latest news about t
heir neighbors. Besides which, telling someone not to talk about what had to be the most explosive thing to have happened in the town’s recent memory would be akin to trying to put out a forest fire with a cup of water. It wasn’t going to happen. The mayor’s son had been arrested for murdering the town manager, for heaven’s sake. It’d be unnatural if that didn’t set tongues wagging.

  “You concentrate on doing your job. I’ll be in my office.” Mrs. Farnsworth issued the order with a stern look. She headed straight for her private space and closed the door behind her with a slam so loud that it would have had her “shushing” if anyone else had dared close a door like that in her library.

  About a half hour later, Mayor Goodvale came in. “Good afternoon, Miss, er . . .” He looked over to his right, where his son usually stood. His shoulders dropped about an inch. “Miss . . . I’m sorry.”

  “Becket, sir,” I said kindly.

  “Right, Becket’s girl.”

  “I heard what happened,” I said. “I’m in a state of shock. If there’s anything I can do. It’s so hard to believe.”

  He looked momentarily confused. His brows creased as he studied me. “About my boy, you mean? Yes, yes. He didn’t harm anyone. The situation will be cleared up in no time. I promise you that.” His wide politician smile returned. “Now, is Mrs. Farnsworth around? I need to have a word with her.”

  “She’s in her office, but—” I started to tell him that I didn’t think she wanted to be disturbed. But he wasn’t listening.

  He entered her office without bothering to knock. Several minutes later he reemerged, his grin even brighter than before. He nodded in my direction before heading out the door. I watched as he crossed the road and went directly to the Sunrise Diner.

  Mrs. Farnsworth’s door remained ominously closed for the rest of the day.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  What a busy day!” Flossie exclaimed with a happy sigh when I went to check on her a few minutes before closing time the next day. It was Saturday. She’d spent the day volunteering in the secret bookroom. “I must have checked out close to a hundred books.” She tapped the nearly full library card box sitting on the old desk.

  “I hate to say it, but I think we’ll need to computerize the system. Technology does make some tasks easier.” I grabbed my oversized tote bag and started to fill it with books I thought my more gossipy readers might enjoy. I planned to make several stops on the way home to personally loan out books.

  “Technology can be a real time-saver, but sometimes it’s not nearly as fun,” Flossie said with a smile. “Let’s hold out a little longer and see if we can get used to doing it by hand.”

  “It’s a system I’ve never actually used. When I was a child, I remember having to use the book slips. I think. But by the time I took the job here at the library, the process was automated.”

  “Computers do have their uses,” Flossie agreed. “They’ve put even the most obscure information at our fingertips. Just this morning, I looked up when a certain kind of pistol was first used in the UK. Not ten seconds later, I had my answer.”

  “Are you working on a historical thriller?” I asked her.

  “Now, wouldn’t that be telling?” she said with a laugh.

  “I don’t know why you won’t tell anyone what books you write.”

  “And ruin my image of International Woman of Mystery? Never!” She wheeled around the battered old desk and moved toward me. “Everyone is gone. I assume you’ve been thinking about Duggar’s death and Luke’s involvement ever since we talked yesterday. I want you to tell me what’s bothering you about his arrest.”

  “Bothering me?” I tried to act surprised.

  “Honey, that smile you’re wearing right now looks as brittle as a beauty queen’s bleached hair.”

  “That’s mean,” I said, though I still chuckled. I ran my hand over the spines of a few of the books on the shelves. “Something isn’t right. Don’t get me wrong. I want to believe this matter is over. Yet Mayor Goodvale came in after lunch yesterday to talk to Mrs. Farnsworth. The man didn’t seem the least bit upset over his son’s arrest for murder. His son is sitting in a jail cell, and the mayor is grinning like he’s just won another election.”

  “Marvin is a politician through and through. He’s good at hiding his emotions when it suits his purposes.”

  “No one is that good.” I paused at my favorite Nancy Drew mystery, The Hidden Staircase, and pulled it from the shelf.

  Flossie frowned. “The mayor is acting fishy? What are you going to do about it?”

  “What can I do?” I opened the book to my favorite passage, where Nancy discovers the secret staircase. “In this book it’s vividly clear who the villains are from the first chapter. Why can’t real life be so easy?”

  “Honey, if life were easy, we’d all be bored out of our minds. What you need to do is focus on what you do know and let others in your life help you figure out the rest.”

  I considered telling Flossie about the copy of The Maltese Falcon Charlie had given me, and how it had fed the doubts I’d already had about Tori and her odd behavior. But just as quickly as the idea had entered my mind, I dismissed it. Speaking about it aloud felt like the worst kind of betrayal. I couldn’t do that to Tori.

  After returning The Hidden Staircase to its shelf, I found the library’s copy of The Maltese Falcon. It looked identical to Charlie’s “clue.” They had to be the same edition. I pulled it from the shelf and opened it up to the cover page to see if it said it was a first edition. Perhaps Charlie had given me this particular printing of The Maltese Falcon because of how much these books were worth and not because he thought I should be wary of our town’s femme fatale.

  I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t checked this right away. The stress of Mrs. Farnsworth going missing and then word of Luke’s arrest must have distracted me. Well, at least I was looking into it now.

  Books that are first editions will often state it on the copyright page. But sometimes even that’s misleading. A book might say “first edition,” but to a collector it isn’t a true first edition. It might be an anniversary “first” edition, for instance. From my limited research on the topic last night, I’d learned that the books that are worth the most to book collectors are the ones that are the first printed appearance of that particular work.

  Nothing on the copyright page indicated that this particular book was a first anything. Like the copy Charlie had given me, the library’s copy had a gray cloth cover. No title on the front, only a dark green image of a falcon. The title appeared on the spine along with the author’s name and publisher.

  The date on both books’ cover pages read 1930. Supposedly, older books listed their printing date on the cover page. If the date on the copyright page didn’t match the date on the cover page, that would mean it wasn’t a first edition.

  The first copyright date on the copyright page was 1929. The date on the cover page was 1930. Not a first edition. It wasn’t a book that would be worth a small fortune.

  I slid the library’s copy into my tote bag. It was the kind of mystery novel my father enjoyed. I knew from organizing his extensive home library for his birthday last year that he didn’t have a copy of the book. He’d probably enjoy rereading it. And he might be able to give me some new insights on the book’s many meanings.

  “Everything feels wrong,” I said as I patted my tote bag. “The books shouldn’t be in the basement. Mrs. Farnsworth shouldn’t feel like she needs to hide in her office. And the library should be the safest place in town, not the most dangerous.” I quickly turned away from Flossie. “Let’s get these books shelved.” I grabbed a pile from the stack of returned books.

  Luke was in jail and the police chief, who was a respected man, was saying the case was closed. I shouldn’t still be thinking about Charlie’s clue or worrying about Tori and whether she’d done something horrible. She hadn�
��t. Luke had.

  Still, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop my thoughts from traveling back over the investigation. My mind raced through the many Nancy Drew mysteries I’d read and reread over the years. I couldn’t remember even one instance in which Nancy had ever suspected either Bess or George of wrongdoing. I wish I could remember something like that from one of those books. Then, perhaps, I’d know what to do now.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The next day was Sunday, the one day the library remained closed in Cypress. I’d looked forward to sleeping in. But I had a cat now. After I spent yet another sleepless night tossing and turning and worrying about Mrs. Farnsworth and what the mayor might have said to her on Friday, Dewey batted at my nose until I dragged my bedraggled self out of bed at first light.

  Dewey trilled—a mix between a purr and a meow—as he trotted directly under my feet while I stumbled toward the kitchen. He trilled even more loudly at the sight of food in his dish. And while he ate, he purred like a high-performance race car.

  I poured myself a bowl of cereal. I stared at the food in my bowl as I sat, slightly slumped, at the table. From my purse, I retrieved the torn paper Dewey had discovered in the media room. I wondered if I should give it to Jace. Unsure what to do with it, I set it aside. I then found in my purse the copy of The Maltese Falcon Charlie had given me and the small blue notebook that I’d jotted notes into when this investigation had still felt like a new and exciting game.

  On the notebook’s first page I’d written the names of everyone who was in the library at the time of Duggar’s murder. Flossie and I topped the list. But we had both been in the basement when I heard that ominous thud of the shelf being pushed over onto Duggar. Next on the list was the mayor and his son, Luke. I’d drawn lines through both their names, since the mayor and Luke had provided each other with alibis. Had Mrs. Farnsworth somehow blown a hole in Luke’s alibi? She must have.