The Broken Spine

by Dorothy St. James

  I smiled. “Do tell.” I wanted to hear all, but then I remembered the ticking clock. “I mean, later. Right now we need to change our plans. I think I’m wrong about Anne.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad you finally came to your senses. It was so hard to keep supporting you as you kept insisting we go down that wrong path.”

  “It might not have been the wrong path,” I started to argue, but we didn’t have time for that. “Regardless, text Charlie and buy us some time. I’ll need at least another hour.”

  Tori pulled out her phone, but before she sent the text, she looked up at me again. “You don’t still suspect I kicked Duggar’s bucket for him?” she asked quietly.

  “What?” My face immediately started to flame.

  “Hello? We’ve been friends since preschool. I always know what you’re thinking. And that, you have to know, hurt my feelings to no end.”

  “I was wrong,” I wasn’t too proud to admit.

  “Yeah? You think?” she said. “Well, if I’m not the root of all evil in Cypress, who do you think killed Duggar? Please don’t tell me our culprit is Santa Claus or Flossie.”

  “Not Santa Claus. But perhaps as unbelievable. Mayor Goodvale.” I held up a hand before she could object. “I know. I know. It sounds crazy.”

  She shook her head. “No. Not really. Charlie said he saw Luke at the time of the murder. And his father was nowhere around. And yet, the mayor lied and used his son as an alibi. He wouldn’t have done that unless he felt he needed an alibi.”

  Tori came around to the front of the café counter when Brantley returned with a mop to clean up the mess. “You don’t need to have two baristas working at the same time, Tru. Brantley and Hansen are both more than capable of handling this small counter service by themselves.”

  Duggar had been the one to set up the library café schedule for the first month. He’d told Mrs. Farnsworth that the changes to the library were too big and too important to leave the scheduling in the hands of librarians inexperienced in the real world of business. I wished he were still alive so he could see for himself that he wasn’t nearly as perfect as he thought he was.

  “I get that the mayor had the opportunity. What I don’t understand is why would he kill his own town manager?” Tori asked as we left the café. “Those two men were as close as brothers.”

  “They were. But it’s because of the books.” We walked toward the reading room. “Duggar knew all along that those old volumes had more value than Mrs. Farnsworth or I had ever imagined. For me, the value of the books was found in their content. Keeping those books readily available to the residents of Cypress is worth more than money to me. I’d never really thought of them as investments or assets that could be sold.”

  “But we’re talking about the mayor, not Duggar. Do you think Duggar found out about the mayor’s plans to sell the discarded books and tried to stop him?” Tori asked. “Is that why the mayor turned on his friend?”

  “No.” My gut tightened. “No, the mayor might be charismatic, but we all know he’s not that smart, and he’s especially not book smart. He wouldn’t know a first edition from an anniversary reprint.”

  “Then why would he . . . ?” Her eyes grew wide. Her tan complexion paled. She pressed her fingers to her lips. “No. No, that can’t be the reason.”

  “The reason for what?” Jace asked. I spun around to find him standing in the reading room’s entrance with a tiny toy squirrel dangling from his fingers.

  “Dude, get yourself a cat already,” Tori said with a nervous laugh. She brushed against Jace as she left the reading room. “I’m going to find Flossie and tell her about our change of plans.”

  “Don’t forget to text Charlie,” I called after her in my whispery, librarian voice.

  “The reason for what?” Jace asked again as soon as we were alone. He took a step toward me. “What was Tori talking about? What’s going on?”

  I pinched my lips together before finally saying, “Nothing, really. Dewey will love that. You did buy it for him? Or are you—as Tori suggested—planning on adopting a cat of your own?”

  “I don’t think my dog would appreciate it if I brought home competition.”

  “You have a dog?” I didn’t know why that news surprised me. I knew practically nothing about him.

  He gave a rueful smile. “I’d introduce you to her sometime, but I think she’d see you as competition too. Bonnie has an awfully jealous nature.”

  “Bonnie?” I pictured a large pit bull with a round, kind face but also with jaws that could smash bone.

  He nodded. “I was a beat cop when I adopted her. My partner and I picked her up in a back alley in Queens. Even though she was half-starved and in serious need of a bath—that dog stank to high heaven—she tore into the both of us like a beast in a horror flick by the time I finally managed to push her into the back seat of our squad car. She ripped a hole in the seat on the drive to the animal shelter. The shelter worker took one look at her snarling in the squad car and blanched. That’s when I learned that not all dogs make it to the adoption floor. The vicious ones are . . .” He cleared his throat. “Well, I didn’t have the heart to let that happen to her. Not after everything we’d been through to get her off the street. So, I got back into the car and drove her to my apartment. It took an entire package of hot dogs, but my partner and I finally managed to lure her out without sustaining any more bites. She’s been with me ever since.”

  I tried to overlay the image of a young cop saving a vicious dog with the image of the high school boy who had trampled my heart and stolen my work. But no matter how hard I tried, those two images wouldn’t mesh. “You’re not the boy I tutored,” I said.

  He swore softly before saying, “I hope not. I think back on my high school ‘glory days’ and cringe. I didn’t like who I was then, and remembering that boy, I like him even less.”

  “He was a royal jerk,” I said in agreement.

  “Especially to you. I am sorry, Tru, that I stole from you. I’m sorry that I hurt you. In high school, I’d become someone I thought my friends wanted me to be. It took leaving Cypress and years of spending time alone to grow into someone I didn’t hate. I’m still working on that last part.” He dredged his fingers through his hair. “And I can’t believe I just said that.”

  I touched his hand. “I don’t hate you, if that means anything.”

  He drew a long, slow breath. And I held my own, waiting to hear what he might say next, expecting this to turn into one of those grand moments that happened at the end of the best romance novels, the endings that left me with tears flooding down my cheeks.

  He stroked my cheek. I melted into his touch. My eyes started to close. It was all so, so romantic. Sissy was wrong. He wasn’t using me. We had a real connection. One that maybe could grow into something—

  “Hmm,” Jace purred, his voice deep and sexy. “Since you’re feeling all gushy toward me, why don’t you tell me what’s going on. What’s the big secret you’ve been keeping from me?”

  I hadn’t expected him to say that. Nor had I expected feeling so tempted to tell him everything.

  Chapter Forty

  It’s the mayor,” I blurted.

  Jace schooled his features, becoming as unreadable as a blank page. “The mayor,” he parroted back.

  “I know it sounds crazy.” And when the entire story came out, it was going to sound like Duggar’s death was my fault. I never meant for anyone to get hurt. I only wanted to save the books. “I already told Detective Ellerbe about Grandle, and he reminded me how I’m seeing things that aren’t real. But I assure you, this is real.”

  “Okay.” Jace’s features remained frustratingly inscrutable. “Tell me what you think our esteemed mayor is up to.”

  I drew a steadying breath. I needed to do this. “Marvin Goodvale killed Duggar.” I held up my hand before he could say anything. “The
mayor and town manager have always worked closely together. Duggar, I’ve since learned, is a collector of rare and expensive books. He knew the value of the books in this library better than perhaps anyone in town—save for our new bookstore owner. And yet, he planned to send those old books to the landfill? Or so he’d told us.

  “Now add Luke to the equation. He returns to Cypress buried under a pile of debt and a dangerous debt collector nipping at his heels. We all know that everyone in Cypress is as poor as church mice. Even the mayor.”

  “He has his lake cabin. That must be worth something. The land values on the lake have been skyrocketing ever since the folks in Columbia and Charlotte discovered us,” Jace pointed out.

  “Yes, but he owns that house with his two brothers.” Everyone in town knew that. “Perhaps they’re not willing to sell. And even if he could force a sale, I doubt that would be enough money to cover Luke’s debts, which appear to be vast.”

  Jace didn’t look convinced. “A few old books can’t be worth even one-third of the value of a house.”

  “That’s what I thought at first too. The books were valuable to me. As books.” As lifelines for a depressed teen. “I hadn’t ever considered the monetary value the books might have. But the more I’ve researched the subject, the more I’ve learned that some of the books in our collection are worth thousands of dollars.” I swallowed over a lump of guilt in my throat. “I think when you add up the value of the entire collection, it might be worth close to a small fortune.”

  Jace seemed to chew on that information. “Yes, but what does that have to do with Duggar’s murder?”

  “The mayor and Duggar couldn’t just walk in and take the books from the library. No, that wouldn’t do at all. For one thing, the alarms at the door would go off if they tried to steal them. And I’m talking about dozens of books in the collection, not just one or two, that they would have to take. The two of them would have to get the books legally out of the town’s holding before they could sell them. Otherwise, they’d be stealing from the town. Duggar could have upgraded the library while keeping the printed books. There’s room for the books. But he didn’t. He made certain that those books—books he had to know were valuable—would be disposed of.”

  “That’s an interesting theory, but it’s still not a motive for murder,” he said. “If what you’re saying is true, it sounds as if the mayor and town manager were working together.”

  “Yes, I think they were working together. You have in evidence a sheet of paper from Charlie’s store providing an estimate of some of those books.”

  “You know I can’t—”

  “I know. I know you cannot discuss that. I’m not asking you to. I’m simply providing supporting information for my argument.”

  He crossed his arms. “Go on. You think their partnership fell apart because one of them got greedy?”

  “Um . . . something like that.” I tried to tell him about the secret bookroom and how I’d removed the books that they were planning to sell. I tried to tell him that the mayor, after discovering that the books they’d planned to sell were missing from the boxes, had suspected Duggar of double-crossing him and had killed his best friend in a fit of anger. Even after Duggar’s death, the mayor had continued to search the boxes for those books I’d taken. I’d witnessed him digging through the boxes myself. But what came out of my mouth was, “I think the mayor was worried that Duggar might try to keep the books instead of selling them. And he killed him to keep that from happening.”

  Not a lie. I did think Mayor Goodvale had blamed Duggar when he couldn’t find the books we’d moved downstairs to the vault. And when Duggar denied knowing where the books were, the mayor lost it. In a rage, he killed Duggar.

  That was why the mayor had lied about his alibi. (He needed one.) That was why someone had broken into Charlie’s bookstore. (The mayor was on a desperate search for the missing books.) That was why someone had broken into my house. (The mayor had heard that I was loaning out old library books and had suspected I’d stashed the books somewhere in my home.)

  If I hadn’t started the secret bookroom, Duggar would still be alive.

  I drew in a ragged breath. “Um . . . Luke isn’t guilty. His father is.”

  And me.

  I was also guilty.

  I needed to tell Jace.

  I needed to come clean about my role in the murder.

  “I . . . I—” I stuttered.

  “Yes, Tru?” Jace leaned toward me, his expression looking so kind, so earnest. Still, I trembled at the thought of telling him about my role in Duggar’s death.

  “Tru!” Tori hurried into the room. Her voice was too loud. Her eyes were wide with a look of panic. “You need to get downstairs. Now.”

  “What’s going on?” Jace asked, his voice just as loud as Tori’s.

  “Book business,” Tori nearly shouted.

  I shushed them both. “We can finish this later,” I told Jace softly before following Tori out of the reading room. I had to jog to keep up with her.

  Jace had started to follow but was waylaid by Detective Ellerbe, who looked awfully concerned about something.

  “I wasn’t able to stop Flossie’s plan,” Tori whispered. “And now Anne is downstairs poking around outside the vault and is as angry as a bear.”

  “Anne? But she isn’t the killer, is she?”

  “I don’t know. Flossie is trying to calm her down, but I’m scared.”

  We made it down the stairs and into the basement in record time. Anne was pacing in front of the vault doors. Flossie had parked herself in front of them, her hands firm on the wheels of her wheelchair.

  As soon as Anne spotted us, she rushed toward me. “You!” she shouted. “I knew you did it!” She jabbed a finger toward the vault doors. “I’m not going to let you get away with it.”

  She whirled back around toward Flossie. “Let me pass. You have no right to stop me. I work here. You don’t.”

  “Anne,” I said, my voice much calmer than I felt. “What’s going on?”

  “I . . . I heard that you have it.” Her voice trembled.

  “It?” Not them? Not the books?

  “In there!” She thrust her finger at the vault doors again. “You hid it in there!”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  She gave Flossie’s wheelchair a mighty shove.

  “Hey!” Flossie cried. The wheelchair teetered on two wheels, but Flossie quickly shifted her balance and managed to keep it from flipping over on its side. At the same time Tori rushed to the vault door and threw her arms wide to block Anne.

  “It’s Dewey,” I said quickly. “I’m keeping him in there. If you open the doors, he’ll rush out and run upstairs and start chewing on your wires.”

  That seemed to do the trick.

  “If there’s something in there that you need me to get, I’ll get it for you,” I told her.

  “It’s the screwdriver,” Flossie said and gave me a meaningful look. “She wants the screwdriver you found this morning. The one that was used to loosen the bolts on the shelf that killed Duggar.”

  “The missing murder weapon?” I asked as I turned back to Anne.

  Tori had warned me that she hadn’t been able to stop the plan, the plan that none of us had expected to work. Flossie was going to tell everyone that I’d found the missing hex-head screwdriver and that I’d put it in the basement until I had a chance to hand it over to the police for them to dust for fingerprints. Anne, we figured, would panic and come running to the basement to get the screwdriver.

  But our suspicions had shifted to the mayor. He had to be the one who had killed Duggar, right? Not Anne. Unless . . .

  “Wait a minute. You killed Duggar?” I asked Anne. “I mean, I had thought you might have killed him because you wanted the credit for the work you’d been doing at the library
and he was going to claim he was the mastermind behind the renovations. But then the evidence pointed—”

  “I didn’t kill him! You did!” she shouted.

  “Please, don’t shout. This is a library. Even down here,” came my automatic response. “If you didn’t kill him, why in the world would you come looking for the screwdriver?”

  “Because I didn’t want to let you get away with it!” she shouted, though her voice wasn’t quite as loud as before. “I’m not going to let you get away with murder. And I’m certainly not going to let you frame me for the crime.” She held out her hand. “Give it to me.”

  “The screwdriver?” I asked dumbly. Of course that was what she wanted. “I don’t have it.”

  She tilted her head to one side. “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t?” Tori said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. She sounded just as catty as Sissy. “And everyone has been telling us how smart you are. Oh, dear. Were they wrong?”

  “I don’t—” Anne started to say again.

  “It’s simple, really,” Tori explained. “We put out word that Tru found the screwdriver and is handing it over to the police. And then we waited for the killer to come running down here to reveal herself.”

  “But I didn’t kill anyone!” Anne cried.

  “Then you should have been smart enough to keep your nose out of our business,” Tori said in a patronizing tone.

  Anne stabbed her finger toward the vault doors again. “But there’s something fishy going on in there.”

  Dewey, bless him, meowed loud enough to be heard through the thick doors.

  “You’re . . . you’re really keeping your cat in there?” Anne stammered.

  “Please, don’t tell Mrs. Farnsworth,” I begged. “He can’t do any harm in that room. It’s an empty storage room. He’s miserable when I keep him home.”

  Anne’s brows wrinkled as she continued to stare at the double doors. “But why do patrons keep coming down here?”