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I MADE IT BACK HOME in a fog. I found something in the fridge to warm up and ate it without focusing on what I was eating. All I could think about was what had happened. I picked up my book and then put it down again and rubbed my hands over my face. Things were bad if I couldn’t use my favorite pastime to escape. What I suddenly realized I needed was something totally mindless. Well, what I actually really probably needed was to go to sleep, but I sure didn’t see that happening until I was able to unwind a little bit.
I picked up the remote and turned on the television. It hadn’t been on for a while and, as a matter of fact, looked like it needed dusting. I settled on some sort of reality show that pulled me immediately in and settled down to watch the TV equivalent of cotton candy—decidedly un-nutritious but captivating as the rain started up again and poured down on the roof.
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THE NEXT MORNING, I moved really slowly as I got ready. I’d had crazy dreams all night about cats and bodies and police and woke up not feeling at all rested. I took special care over my makeup, figuring some well-applied makeup could cover up most of the evidence of the rough night.
I used my key to unlock the library and turned on the lights. The old building felt like home. It was an old Carnegie library and a beautiful one. It was constructed in the Greek revival style and looked like an ancient temple. The bricks were a buff color and there was a low parapet around the roof with repeating embellishments in the cornice. The center of the roof was raised and boasted ornamental lions. The inside was cheerful and cozy with a fireplace in a reading area and comfy armchairs. It felt safe. Plus, naturally, the whole place smelled of books.
It wasn’t long before Wilson came in, again wearing a rather solemn-looking suit. He said briskly, “How did your date go?”
I winced. “I’m surprised the news hasn’t circulated yet, considering the number of neighbors who were peering out their windows and standing in their yards. My date was dead when I arrived there.”
“What?” Wilson’s eyes were huge.
I explained what had happened while Wilson alternately gaped at me and shook his head. “That is insane.” He ran a hand through his white hair, making it stand up on end in spots.
I nodded, resisting the urge to reach out and smooth the hair down. “I hope the police chief was able to get in contact with Roger’s other family members or that his sister did. I’d hate for his great-aunt Emily to come in here this morning and ask me the same question you did. She was so excited about our date, too,” I added sadly.
Wilson asked, “Was his sister there last night?”
“She came by when she saw all the emergency vehicles. I think it probably scared her half to death. At any rate, it was a terrible evening, and I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, so I’ll need to fire up the coffee maker in the breakroom,” I said.
Wilson shifted uneasily, a gesture I’d come to know and dread.
“Uh-oh. What’s wrong?” I asked, bracing myself against a bookcase. “Let me guess—the copier is jammed today. We’re out of tax forms? The women’s restroom is out of order? Even worse—the aforementioned coffee maker is broken? Don’t hold back, I can take it.”
“Worse,” said Wilson gloomily. “Our new children’s librarian is going to be late because of a family emergency.”
“Don’t tell me. You need me to do storytime today? Which one is scheduled this morning?”
“It’s Mother Goose,” said Wilson, referring to the toddler storytime. Usually the moms and kids were regaled with a great storyteller who used puppets and props to create a magical experience. This morning, on the other hand, we were all going to suffer through my rendition, involving last-minute prep and an overtired librarian.
“It’s okay . . . I’ve got this,” I said, trying to convince myself by sounding confident. “As long as it’s not the adult craft class, right? You know how that turned out last time.”
“The mosaics? Yes. The library board has decided you’re banned in future from teaching craft-related programs,” said Wilson dryly.
I winced at the memory. I’d been too gung-ho to think I could fill in for our program volunteer, who’d been out with the flu. In hindsight, we should simply have rescheduled the class. “Perhaps a less messy program would have been a better segue for me. Making wreaths, or something. Mother Goose storytime will be a cinch in comparison,” I said.
“The bubbles are in the closet,” said Wilson, with a chuckle.
“Bubbles, right.” The toddlers were used to having bubbles blown at the start and end of storytime as a way of getting them into the mindset. I only hoped the bubble machine, finicky at the best of times, was in excellent working condition or the storytime couldn’t possibly be redeemed.
“It’s a nine o’clock event,” said Wilson pointedly.
“And that’s my cue,” I said as I hurried off.
After I set up the books, bubble machine, and CDs in the community room, I walked over to the circulation desk to check out a patron who was having trouble with self-checkout. I saw a handwritten note on a scrap piece of paper on the desk. It read: FYI, the cats belonged to Elsie Brennon. Unfortunately, she’s recently deceased and the cats have no current home. I glanced around the library as I handed the patron her books. I spotted Linus Truman, a regular, looking my way before he hastily glanced down at his book again. Despite the fact Linus was here every day, he never engaged with the librarians. It made sense if the note was from him . . . he wanted to help out, but didn’t want to get pulled into conversation.
Then it was time for storytime. The amazing thing was that it went off much better than I could possibly have hoped. I knew the books would work well . . . I absolutely loved Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? and The Very Hungry Caterpillar. The kids were adorable and the storytime itself was fun, if chaotic, with a roomful of toddlers. The only problem I usually had was with the moms. For some reason, this particular group of moms was very demanding, without a single laid-back mom in the group. This might be because they were a lot of first-time moms in the storytime. And if I wasn’t completely prepared (as I wasn’t this time) with not just books but songs and crafts, then the moms would let me know about it.
Before I joined the moms and toddlers who were already filling the room, I glanced back at our computer room hesitantly. Sure enough, there was a dad in there in with a toddler, same as there had been every day this week. He was waiting each morning when the library opened—said that he was job hunting because he’d lost his job last week.
I stuck my head through the glass doors of the room. He was focused on a job board while his little girl played with a doll on the floor next to him. “Hey, we’re about to have storytime. Do you think your daughter might want to take part?”
He brightened. “That would be great. Except—I should be looking for jobs. I look in the morning and try to get to interviews in the afternoon.”
“No problem. I can keep an eye on her for you,” I said. I held out my hand to her, and she trustingly held onto it with her little hand. This definitely wasn’t protocol. Library policy dictated each child should be accompanied by at least one caretaker. But that way the little girl could do something fun while her dad focused on finding work.
Somehow, I’d managed to get into the rhythm of the program this time. The bubble machine had gone off without a hitch and the toddlers danced around in delight, their little faces turned ecstatically up to the bubbles gently floating around them. The toddler girl from the computer room looked around in wonder at the bubbles, tentatively putting her hand out to touch any that came close.
I’d also pulled out an old CD player that was still loaded with a toddler CD and regaled the group with The Wheels on the Bus and Head, Shoulder, Knees, and Toes. We sang along together in between the books, which gave them the opportunity to move around and not have to sit still for too long. It is always good to get your wiggles out when you’re a little kid.
I was just about to pull out a third book, the marvelous Moo, Baa, La La La!, when there was a tap at the glass door. I looked up and froze. There stood our friendly neighborhood vet from yesterday with two crates and two cats.
“Are those cats?” asked a tall mom, eyes narrowed, in the tone one might use to say there are rabid coyotes in the building.