Checked Out (14 page)

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Helen saw a streak of red, heard a sound like a Harley crossed with a lawn mower, and slammed on the Igloo’s brakes just in time.

What the heck?

Gladys pulled up into the parking spot next to Helen’s on a fire red Vespa scooter, and revved the engine. She wore a short denim jacket, sedate white blouse, flirty red pleated skirt and those black buckled boots.

“Morning, Biker Babe,” Helen said, as she climbed out of her car. “Cool ride. What happened to the mom mobile?”

Gladys pulled off her red helmet and shook out her long black hair. “Fender bender on my way home from work the day before yesterday,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” Helen said.

“I’m not,” Gladys said. “The mom mobile is probably history, but the dude who did it in is smokin’ hot. Nick’s a professional diver and plays in an alternative band.”

“Hey,” Helen said.

“Even better, he actually reads. We exchanged information.”

“It’s required by law,” Helen said, solemnly.

“And we wouldn’t want to break the law,” Gladys said. “We ran into each other—well, he ran into me—on Federal Highway near a Vespa dealer. After the police came and the mashed mom mobile was towed, we walked over to the Vespa place and I fell in love.”

“With the red scooter?” Helen said.

“Of course.”

“Do you have a motorcycle license?”

“Thanks to an old boyfriend who was a cell’s angel—a lawyer who rode his Harley on weekends,” she said. “We took a motorcycle safety course together and I got my license.”

“You’re amazing,” Helen said.

“A scooter doesn’t have the same feel as an eight-hundred-pound Harley, but I adjusted to it fairly quick. I’m renting this one until the insurance mess is sorted out. Then I may buy it.”

“This will smash the boring librarian stereotypes,” Helen said, as she admired the scooter’s sleek shape and shiny chrome mirrors. “Love the color.”

“Dragon Red,” Gladys said, as she pulled her purse out of a surprisingly roomy compartment behind her seat.

“Lots of room,” Helen said.

“That’s called a top case,” Gladys said. “It’s like a trunk for a scooter.” She stashed her bright red helmet inside and locked it. “My little dragon gets sixty-five miles a gallon.”

“Better than a Ferrari,” Helen said.

“Nobody buys a Ferrari for good gas mileage,” Gladys said. “But this will be fun to drive until I get mine.”

“Where was this accident?” Helen said.

“Fort Lauderdale,” Gladys said.

Miles away from Charlotte’s fatal hit-and-run, Helen thought.

“I was on my way to the grocery store to pick up something for dinner when Nick ran into me,” Gladys said. “He felt so bad, he offered to buy me dinner.

“I wasn’t all that upset. I never cared much for the mom mobile, and if the insurance totals it, I’ll have a polite way to get rid of it without hurting my mother’s feelings.

“Nick’s car was dented but drivable, so I followed him on my new scooter to his favorite restaurant, Hot and Soul.”

Helen whistled. “The man has good taste. That’s the international soul food restaurant tucked away in a little shopping center at Federal and Oakland Park. I’ve heard good things about that place.”

“They’re all true,” Gladys said. Helen saw that the blush on the librarian’s cheeks was natural and her eyes were dreamy. “I had the Louisiana gumbo and Nick had the oxtail gnocchi. Amazing craft beer, too, but I only had one. I didn’t want to be too wobbly when I went home on my new scooter.”

“I bet Phil would like that place,” Helen said. “You didn’t ride your scooter to work yesterday.”

“No, I wanted to get used to it on the back streets before I rode it in rush-hour traffic,” Gladys said.

They were at the staff door of the mellow, sun-splashed library. Jasmine drifted on the sultry air and palm trees whispered like conspirators.

“Good talking to you,” Gladys said. “I’d better hurry. I don’t want to be late.”

Inside the library, Gladys clocked in with a minute to spare, then ran for the circulation desk. Helen stashed her purse in the sunny staff break room. Blair looked like she’d stepped out of a fifties sitcom in a styleless beige shirtwaist and a string of pearls. She gave Helen a nod, poured herself a cup of coffee, then disappeared into the grim, bug-infested Friends’ intake room. Jared was
trundling his rolling mop bucket down the hall. Lisa and Alexa were nowhere to be seen.

The coffeepot had a half inch of tar at the bottom. How could Blair drink that sludge? Helen wondered, as she cleaned the pot. Before she could make more coffee, she heard raised voices at the checkout desk.

Blair hurried out to the front of the library, Helen following. She saw a short man, his broad shoulders visible under his plaid shirt, pounding on the desk so hard his thick white hair fell into his eyes. Helen pegged him at a strong seventysomething. His tanned, weathered face was crisscrossed with wrinkles like a cracked, drying mud puddle.

“Tuck in your shirt!” he said, like a drill sergeant.

The regulars in their wicker wing chairs were already settled in their usual places in the popular library. Several well-coifed women looked up and frowned at the disturbance. Mr. Ritter shook his
New York Times
until it crackled. Helen guessed he was impatient at the interruption.

“My shirt is supposed to be out, Mr. Atkins,” Gladys said.

“It’s longer than your jacket,” he said.

“That’s the style,” Gladys said.

Helen was amazed at her mild tone.

Blair edged closer to hear the controversy better. Mr. Ritter cleared his throat. Helen took that as a warning signal.

Mr. Atkins ignored it. “You’re wearing biker boots,” he said. “Why don’t you dress like a librarian?”

“I do,” Gladys said. Helen admired her patience with the rude man.

“You’re a disgrace,” he said, then pointed to Blair. “Why don’t you dress like her? She looks like a librarian.”

“Ms. Hoagland is not a librarian,” Gladys said quietly. “She’s the head of our Friends of the Library. Now, do you wish to file a complaint with the library director about my clothes, or may I
check out your books?” She slid his library card off the stack of fat Tom Clancy thrillers and began scanning the books.

“I filed a complaint last time,” he said. “It didn’t do any good. Some people have no respect.”

“These are due in two weeks, Mr. Atkins. Have a good day,” Gladys said, and pushed his books toward him. The angry man gathered them and stomped off, ignoring the glares of the library’s wing-chair readers.

“He’s right, you know,” Blair said to Gladys. “Proper dress is important.”

“Feel free to discuss it with Alexa,” she said.

“Hmpf!” Blair said. She marched back to the Friends’ intake room.

“Brava,” Helen said softly. “I thought you would have ripped Mr. Atkins a new one.”

“No point,” Gladys said. “We go through this every two weeks, when he comes in for his books. It’s a ritual, like a Japanese kabuki drama, without the white makeup. This is the first time Blair’s come out to watch. She usually complains about my clothes behind my back. Alexa lets her complaints go in one ear and out the other.

“Hey, let me show you what I found in a novel when I was scanning the returned books,” she said, her eyes dancing.

She pulled out several sheets of paper. Helen read the first one, a formal request and explanation for four days of sick leave from the Baxtrix Corporation. The request had been granted, but Gladys had put a small bit of paper over the name to protect the patron’s privacy.

“Now look at what was next to it in the same book,” she said.

Helen saw a four-page bill from the luxurious Ritz-Carlton hotel in Sarasota, Florida, for those same days. Again, Gladys made sure Helen couldn’t see the name.

“Think this person was truly ill?” Helen asked.

“Working a job for that computer company would make me sick with boredom,” Gladys said, “but I don’t think our patron was too terribly ill.”

“What are you going to do with these?” Helen asked.

“Put them in a sealed envelope and give them to the patron next time that person comes in—which should be soon.”

“I’m impressed how you protected his privacy,” Helen said.

“Or hers,” Gladys said.

“Time for me to start shelving,” Helen said.

And find out who killed Charlotte, she thought.

H
elen was peacefully shelving and snooping at the Flora Park Library, hoping to find a clue to Charlotte’s murder. She enjoyed mornings in the mellow reading room, when the sun gilded the airy arched windows and patrons quietly enjoyed their books and worked on their laptops.

Until she heard a screech like an angry peacock. “No—you got the last new large-print book, Roberta! I’m entitled to this one.”

Helen turned to see who the old bird was. Two snowy-haired women were fighting over a book.

“Then you should have reserved it, Lily,” Roberta said. “I saw it first.”

Roberta was a bony five feet seven or so, and her pale blue pantsuit flapped on her scarecrow frame. She clutched the book with skeleton fingers, protecting it from a small, round woman in an elegant black pantsuit. She must be Lily, Helen thought. Her black cane was painted with flames.

“I saw it before you did,” Lily said. “But when you saw me heading toward the new releases, you raced over and took it. I can’t move as fast as you with this cane.”

“If you hadn’t drunk three martinis at lunch, Lily, you wouldn’t have twisted your ankle.”

Gladys the librarian came bustling over from the checkout desk. “Ladies, ladies, is there a problem?” Her voice was soothing as a kindergarten teacher’s.

“That old bag stole my book,” Lily said. The flames on her cane seemed to run up her arm and out her mouth.

“Old!” Roberta said. “You’re two years older than me.” Her chins trembled.

Gladys interrupted. “I believe you were discussing a problem with a new release?”

Gladys is definitely cool, Helen thought.

“I was taking this novel off the shelf when Lily said she was entitled to it,” Roberta said, and held up the title:
Fifty Shades of Grey
.

Helen ducked behind her book cart so they wouldn’t notice her giggling.

“She got the last new large-print,” Lily said. “I should have this one.”

“Let’s go over to the checkout desk and discuss this issue quietly,” Gladys said. Helen abandoned her book cart and slid behind a bookcase to listen.

“My book club is reading
Fifty Shades
next month,” Roberta said. “I need to read it.”

“I was reaching for it when she stampeded past me and grabbed it,” Lily said.

Gladys was clicking on the computer. “Roberta,” she said, “you owe more than six dollars in overdue fines. Six dollars is our limit. You must pay the fines before you can check out another book. You may pay your fines now and take the book or give it to Lily and I’ll put your name on the reserve list. It will be yours as soon as you pay your fines.”

“Never mind,” Roberta said. “I’ll buy a used copy for a dollar.”

“Cheapskate,” Lily said.

“The only time you’ve seen handcuffs, Lily, was when the feds took your husband away,” Roberta said. She tossed
Fifty Shades
on the checkout counter and stomped toward the door.

“He was indicted,” Lily shouted after her, “but he wasn’t convicted.”

Helen went back to shelving. The other patrons, who’d been watching the altercation as if it were a BBC drama, returned to their books and computers.

This is why I love libraries, Helen thought. They attract smart, funny people. Even the arguments are fun to watch.

She picked Nancy Pickard’s mystery
The Scent of Rain and Lightning
off the shelving cart and recited to herself L, M, N, O . . . P for Pickard. Helen slid
Rain and Lightning
onto the shelf right before Pickard’s
Ring of Truth
.

The Flora Park Library wants its fiction alphabetized, Helen thought, which makes sense. But I don’t get why series novels have to be alphabetized, too. I think Pickard’s
Ring of Truth
should be shelved with the other two books in the Marie Lightfoot series. Except . . . I’m a volunteer. I’m not going to be here much longer. Get back to work.

Gladys cleared her throat, and Helen realized the tall, leggy librarian was standing beside her, in a skirt that was barely there and a demure white blouse.

“Was that a hoot and a half? Two old ladies fighting over
Fifty Shades
,” Gladys said.

“Now you’re stereotyping again,” Helen said. “Those women are old, not dead. You should meet my seventy-six-year-old landlady. You’d think she was younger than me.”

Gladys looked fifty shades of embarrassed and switched the subject. “I’m glad you’re helping here,” she said. “Shelving is an endless chore.”

“I enjoy it,” Helen said. “I like putting things back in order.”

“I thought you’d quit once you found the missing watercolor,” Gladys said.

“I’m sticking around for a little longer,” Helen said. “What did you think of the séance?”

Gladys shrugged. “It was interesting, but I didn’t believe it. Melisandra, the medium, was definitely faking it, but Lisa really thinks she saw the ghost of Flora Portland wandering the halls here. Blair does, too.”

“What about you?” Helen asked. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

“Me? Definitely not. Flora Portland’s long gone. Lisa may believe she saw her ghost, but she also saw an opportunity to get her way here at the library. She’s determined to save this historic building and get it fixed. Lisa will go to the cemetery and dig up Flora Portland herself if it will help her get what she wants.”

“Has the séance changed the library board vote?” Helen asked.

“From what I can figure out, there’s one other believer on the board who thinks Flora’s ghost was at the séance. The four other board members want to preserve Flora Park’s heritage and history. If Lisa can find a way to fund the restoration, they’ll all vote to save the library.

“Blair, the head Friend of the Library, is not on the board, but she’s using all her influence to get the necessary votes,” Gladys said.

“Blair has that much influence?” Helen said.

“Don’t be fooled by her ragbag wardrobe. Blair could be a DC lobbyist. She’s been working. Thanks to Blair, four members are now in favor of the renovation. Lisa, as board president, will make the vote unanimous. But everything depends on getting the money. Blair and Lisa are determined to save and restore the library.”

“Where will they get the money?” Helen asked.

“If the board has any sense, they’ll ask Seraphina. She’s the library’s primo fund-raiser. That woman can talk the balls off . . .”

Helen raised an eyebrow.

Gladys grinned. “. . . a pool table.”

Helen burst out laughing.

“Personally, I think Blair missed a major lobbying opportunity,” Gladys said. “She took her stodgy white Chrysler in for a
major overhaul when she went to lunch the other day. The shop offered her a loaner, a sporty black convertible.”

“That sounds like fun,” Helen said.

“I thought so, too,” Gladys said. “Blair could have shown off that black convertible to the whole board. She would have had a captive audience. But she wouldn’t drive it. Said convertibles weren’t safe. Instead, Blair took a boring gray sedan.”

“I don’t think I saw it in the lot,” Helen said.

“Even if you saw it, you wouldn’t have noticed it,” Gladys said.

“I did see a white Chevy Impala,” Helen said. “I thought it was yours.”

“No, that’s probably Lisa’s rental,” Gladys said. “Actually, her second rental. She came back from lunch the other day all upset because she hit a dog.”

Helen winced. “Did she kill it?” she asked.

“Yes. She was crying. Lisa’s not my favorite person, but I admire the way she takes care of her mother, and she felt terrible about that poor dog.

“Alexa took her into her office and gave Lisa tea and sympathy. She tried to convince her to go home and rest, but Lisa wanted to stay. Then Lisa got a call from her mother’s caregiver. Some minor emergency, and she left.”

“What’s the story on our library director, Alexa?” Helen said. “I admire her, but I don’t know her very well.”

“Join the club,” Gladys said. “She’s good. She gets along with some difficult personalities, but she’s a private person. She and her husband are both from old-line Flora Park families. I met him at a Christmas party. He’s a perfect match for Alexa: dark-haired, handsome, stylish without being stuffy.”

“What’s he do?” Helen asked.

“He’s a big-deal architect.”

“Alexa says she didn’t care if the library is renovated or a new building is built,” Helen said.

“That’s what she tells everyone,” Gladys said. “But if the library can’t find the money to save this old building, the contract to build the new one will go to Alexa’s husband. I hear his family is lobbying quietly for his firm to get the job, and they’ll put up the seed money.

“Oh, did I tell you? You may be seeing my white Impala in two weeks. I’m getting the mom mobile fixed,” Gladys said. “I decided I’ll need it for the rainy season. Meanwhile, I’m zipping around on my red Vespa. I’m buying it. It’s too much fun.”

More debt, Helen thought, then quickly told herself, It’s none of your business. Unless Gladys’s debts drove her to murder.

“I’ll be glad when Lisa’s Jaguar is fixed,” Gladys said.

“Lisa always seems tired,” Helen said.

“I’m tired of listening to her complain that it’s a comedown to drive a Chevy when she’s used to a Jaguar. She has a vintage white Jag, a 1997, I think. That Jag didn’t have a dent or a ding—at least until two days ago, when a judge in a Mercedes hit it.”

“This was before Lisa ran over the dog?” Helen asked.

“Right. She’s not having a good week. Lisa wasn’t injured, but you would have thought the judge ran over her, the way she carried on. I know this is a difficult time for her, but the judge is picking up the whole cost. He even towed her Jag to a special body shop up in Boca. That Jag will look better than new when it’s fixed, and I’m losing sympathy for her.”

“Why is it a difficult time for Lisa?” Helen asked.

“Her mother has to go into a nursing home and money is tight,” Gladys said.

“I thought Lisa had money,” Helen said.

“She used to,” Gladys said. “She married her dream lover, some kind of stockbroker. Her family disapproved. They said he was a huckster, but Lisa was wildly in love. She thought she was following in Flora’s romantic footsteps. They were newlyweds when she inherited her grandmother’s Flora Park home, and she put the
house in both their names. Lisa and her husband spent her trust fund remodeling and redecorating the place until it was a showcase. They’d been married about ten years when he left her for another woman. Since the house was joint property, they had to sell it—at the bottom of the market. They practically gave it away.”

“Too bad,” Helen said.

“Florida real estate is tricky,” Gladys said. “Lisa was fortysomething when she divorced and she’d reconciled with her mother. Her father was dead and bad investments took the family fortune. Lisa moved in with her mother and got a job as a medical billing specialist so she could work at home. She takes care of her mother, who has Alzheimer’s, with a part-time caregiver. Now her mother’s become too difficult for Lisa to care for, even with help. Lisa’s worried sick about finding a good place for her mother. She’s desperate for money.”

“Is Mom’s house worth anything?”

“It’s too far gone. Any remaining money has already been spent on her mother’s care. Lisa will have to sell the house as a fixer-upper. She clings to that Jaguar as the last remnant of her good life.”

A small, round woman at the checkout desk tapped the bell and glared at Helen and Gladys.

“I’ll let you go back to work,” Gladys said. “I have a patron at the desk.”

Helen shelved adult fiction for the next half hour. She noticed many of the books seemed well-read. They weren’t falling apart, but they’d clearly been enjoyed. Occasionally, a page had a coffee ring or tea splash.

Helen could picture the readers curled up in comfortable chairs, enjoying a favorite book and a beverage. The new releases with their pristine pages didn’t seem as attractive to her. They hadn’t felt the book lovers’ benedictions yet.

Helen pushed her heavy, creaking cart over to the humor section for a trip back in time. She wanted to see if her favorite book was still in the library.

There it was, a slim blue volume. Will Cuppy’s
The Decline and Fall of Practically Everybody
.

The section on Alexander the Great was one of the few quotes she remembered more than thirty years after she’d first read it: “Alexander’s empire fell to pieces at once, and nothing remained of his work except that the people he had killed were still dead.”

As far as Helen was concerned, Will Cuppy was the last word on territorial wars. She picked the book off the shelf and paged through it reverently. She was pleased to see that the patrons of Flora Park loved it as much as she did.

When Helen was growing up, the St. Louis County Library was her refuge. Her parents never argued, but Helen’s father was unfaithful. Even a naive teenage Helen figured that out when she met one of Daddy’s special friends, a brightly painted redhead who reeked of perfume and beer at three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. The fact that she was wrapped around Helen’s father was another clue.

Dolores, Helen’s hyper-religious mother, believed divorce was a mortal sin. Each time Helen’s father found a new girlfriend, he’d have to work late. Dolores wasn’t fooled, but she never confronted her husband. Instead, she conducted a cold war, keeping an eerie, icy silence at home, banging pots and pans and aggressively vacuuming the carpet.

Helen fled to the library, and found comfort in Will Cuppy and other books.

Poor Daddy died in the saddle in a hot-sheet hotel. And my long-suffering mother died of a stroke more than a year ago. I hope she’s finally at peace. Helen put Will Cuppy’s history book back on the shelf and wished she could put her own ghosts away as easily.

Quit wandering down Memory Lane, she told herself. You have a killer to catch.