I trotted up the concrete steps to the refurbished red-brick Victorian building and through the door Freddie was holding open for me. I stepped inside with some renewed pep. The coffee and the crisp drive across the lake had helped lift my spirits. I took a deep breath, welcoming the comforting smell of aging books.
Ah, the library. Just being surrounded by all those books made me feel smarter … like I belonged at Harvard or something … sitting at one of those tables with the little lamps with the green shades. Of course, when I’d tried to study here back in high school, I usually ended up with my face flattened against the tabletop, cheek wet with sleep drool, but whatever.
I think the real reason for my improved mood, however, was that this could be it. It was time for answers. Time to prove Tweety innocent.
Freddie walked up beside me. “I love the library,” he whispered, mirroring my sentiment. “It takes me back to my childhood.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah. My nannies loved to dump me here for story time. For a five-, six-year period, I never missed a single one.”
“Freddie!” I turned to see Ms. Robinson slide out from in between the stacks after placing a book back on the shelves without even looking. Not that she was careless. Just the opposite, in fact. Ms. Robinson and the library were one. She just knew what book went where, kind of like how you don’t need to look to scratch the itch at the back of your head. “Where have you been? And Erica Bloom,” she said warmly. “How lovely to see you.”
“Thank you,” I replied with a smile. “It’s good to see you too.”
“Were you two looking for a quiet escape from the fair?”
“No, actually we were hoping that you could help us with something.”
“Of course, dear. Of course. But first, Freddie, would you like a cookie?”
Freddie’s smile widened. “Yes, Ms. Robinson.”
She scurried off toward the back of the library, calling out behind her, “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
“She gets you snacks?” I asked, turning to give Freddie a look.
He just shrugged.
“I swear, you have the weirdest relationships with people.”
“We’re a natural fit. The spinster and the neglected boy. It’s a fairy tale that practically writes itself,” he said, walking farther in. “And it always ends with cookies.”
A moment later, Ms. Robinson hurried back in with a plate of cookies and a glass of milk.
“Oh!” Freddie said, excitedly clapping his hands together. “It’s the ones with the jam in the middle. I love the ones with the jam in the middle.”
He then sat himself down at the children’s table, folding his legs into one of the tiny chairs. I frowned. This was starting to get really weird. I needed to take control of this situation.
“Now, what can I do for you two?” Ms. Robinson asked.
I dragged my eyes away from Freddie. “We were wondering if you have an old VCR we could use. We, uh, are doing some research.” I may have been willing to watch the tape with Freddie before we turned it over to either my uncle or the police department, but I was not about to let rumor get back to Grady about its existence before that happened.
“Of course, dear. There’s one already set up in the basement with a TV. I’ll show you.”
Suddenly the front doorbells jangled.
Ms. Robinson’s face fell. “Oh dear. It’s Mrs. Appleton,” she said, leaning toward us. “She won’t be happy. Her book isn’t in yet.” She met my eye. “She does like her BDSM.”
Freddie and I both looked back at the former Sunday school teacher. I leaned down to whisper, “I think Mrs. Appleton is far more complex than I gave her credit for.”
“I know, right?”
“Oh well,” I said, turning back to Ms. Robinson, “you take care of Mrs. Appleton. I’m sure we can figure things out downstairs.”
“Well,” she replied, with evident disappointment, “if you don’t think you’ll need my help…”
“We’ll be fine.”
Freddie moved to get up from the tiny chair, grasping the plate of cookies in his hands.
“Freddie,” Ms. Robinson said, turning to walk away. “Cookies at the table only. You know that, dear.”
“Yes, Ms. Robinson,” he mumbled, reluctantly setting the plate back down.
“Let’s go.”
He nodded, snatching one more from the plate and stuffing it in his mouth. “If we hurry, we can still make the mini donuts.”
I threw him a look.
“What? I’m hung over.”
* * *
A minute or two later, we were seated at a desk in the gloomy basement library. Even though the room was completely finished, it still felt damp and, well, basement-like.
“By the way,” I said, slipping what I hoped was the right tape into the deck. “I thought you said this whole thing might be Betamax good. These tapes are obviously VHS.”
“I was joking,” he said, slapping my hand away to press the REWIND button. “Of course they aren’t Betamax. Betamax couldn’t tape for thirty-six hours. Not even with time lapse. There’s so much for you to learn.”
We waited as the VCR made some clicking noises.
“It’s creepy in the basement,” Freddie said, looking around. Not that we could see much. The desk had privacy panels. “If I were a serial killer I’d totally hang out down here.”
I shot Freddie a look.
“What?”
After a few more clicks, the VCR’s gears picked up some speed. I couldn’t help but wonder how often Freddie changed these tapes, because this one sounded like it had seen better days. I was about to ask him when the gears slowed again. The machine then stopped with a clunk.
“Here we go.” Freddie pressed PLAY.
The screen suddenly came to life and … my heart sunk. “Oh no, it’s already taped over!” The screen was black with just a few dots of light.
“What?”
I put a hand up to the screen. “It’s black.”
“Settle down, you.” Freddie pointed to the bottom of the screen. “There’s a time stamp, and if I’m right, that’s close to when you stopped the tape.”
“So?”
“So…” Freddie pressed the FAST FORWARD button. “Bingo!”
Suddenly the screen glowed white. Daylight! People! The fair! I clapped my hands together in little happy bursts.
“This,” he said, pointing to the time stamp again, “is about twenty minutes before everything went down. Good thing we stopped the tape from recording over itself.”
“Yeah, good thing we did that.”
Freddie ignored me. “The Tunnel of Love is over here.” He pointed just left of the TV screen. “But Mr. Masterson most likely would have had to walk the main midway to get there.”
We settled back into silence as we watched the crowd of people mill across the screen.
After about fifteen minutes of watching in silence, worry began to seep back in.
“You’re oozing disappointment again.”
“But look at it,” I said, not taking my eyes from the video. “You can barely tell one person from an—Oh! Pompadour!”
Both Freddie and I lurched toward the TV.
“Do you see it?” I asked, pressing at the screen with my index finger.
“I see it! Move your hand!”
“That’s totally Mr. Masterson.”
“You know, at one time I thought about trying a pompadour, but it’s a lot of work,” Freddie said, angling in closer. “Bit of a dandy, isn’t he? Is he walking with anyone? I can’t tell.”
I yanked him back at the shoulder. “I can’t see! Move.” We both watched a moment or two in silence. “No, I think he’s alone. Wait … wait.”
“What! What!” Freddie shouted.
“No!” I couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across my face. “It can’t be!”
“What! Who?”
“Look who’s making a beeline through the crowd to get to Mr. Masterson.”
“Who? Stop it!” Freddie said smacking me on the arm. “Just tell me.”
I leaned back in my chair. “Wait for it. You’ll see. Now! Right there!” I pointed at the screen.
“Oh!” Freddie yelled. He turned his eyes to meet mine. “Well, this might just change everything.”