Checked Out (9 page)

“W
ait!” Helen said, and put her ear to the door.

“Now what?” Charlotte said. “I’m going to be late for my noon interview.”

“Sh! I think I hear something,” Helen said.

Was Blair listening at doors again? she wondered. Would the well-bred Lisa stoop to snooping? Does she even have the energy? Helen pressed her ear harder against the wooden door, but it was at least two inches thick.

Scritch, scritch.
She thought she heard a small scratching sound. Paris the cat? Or someone’s fingernails?

Charlotte moved restlessly. “I have to leave,” she whined. “I can’t miss my job interview.”

“Just a second,” Helen hissed. “Stand behind those books.”

When Charlotte was out of sight, Helen flung open the door. She heard a scuffling sound, then feet—or maybe paws—pattering down the hall. Paris? Blair? Gladys, Lisa or Alexa? Surely not those four women, Helen decided. She could still hear Jared hammering. She couldn’t see who—or what—was in the dreary hall.

No wonder people believe this library is haunted, Helen
decided, looking up at the single bare bulb strangled by the gloom. Good lighting would lay the ghost to rest.

“Okay, Charlotte,” Helen said. “Get your briefcase and go.”

“How do I look?” Charlotte twirled so Helen could see her.

“Brush the dust off your right sleeve and I’d hire you in a heartbeat,” Helen said. “Good luck. Make sure you’re back by three o’clock, or you won’t get your share of the reward.”

“Don’t worry,” Charlotte said, ducking out of the Kingsley room. “I need that money.”

Helen heard her reach into the closet across the hall for her briefcase, then carefully close the closet door. She watched Charlotte hurry down the hall until the shadows swallowed the intruder.

Then Helen checked her watch. Almost eleven o’clock, she thought. Charlotte has plenty of time to make her noon interview. When she returns, my work here is done.

Helen tidied up the dusty room as best she could, stacking the boxes she’d already opened, making sure the elephant folios were safely wrapped in acid-free paper, and the white cotton gloves rested on top of them.

I won’t miss the dust or the depressing wallpaper, Helen thought, but I hate that Charlotte’s claiming half of my reward.

Except the homeless woman did find the watercolor. Maybe I can find a better-paying job and make that money without being shut up in a windowless room.

But Helen was still annoyed, and she slammed a box down with extra force.

“Helen, it’s me, Lisa.” The library board president’s knock on the door interrupted Helen’s brooding. “May I come in?”

Lisa didn’t wait for an answer. She walked in, looking lean and rangy in a gray chalk-striped pantsuit. “So.” She attempted a smile. “Did you find anything?”

“A lot of dust,” Helen said, her thoughts scrambling wildly. Lisa’s not supposed to know about the search for the watercolor.
But thanks to Seraphina’s big mouth, everyone connected to the library knows now.

“No sign of the missing million-dollar painting?” Lisa said.

“You would have heard the shrieks of joy throughout the library if I had,” Helen said. “Be careful. Your white French cuff is dragging in the dust on the pile of boxes.”

“Oh, yes, yes, it is,” Lisa said. She brushed off the dust and it left an ugly black smear on her snowy cuff. Helen saw her dismay. Was the handsome white blouse a carefully preserved remnant from a happier time?

“I’d better get this dirt off in case it stains,” Lisa said.

She was barely gone before Helen heard the rumble of a cart in the hall and another knock on the door.

“Yes?” Helen said.

Blair pushed her way inside the Kingsley collection room. “I’m here to help,” she said.

“I’m doing fine, thank you,” Helen said, her voice crisp with distrust.

“We didn’t get off to a good start,” Blair said, “but you came to the séance last night and treated it with respect. I’d like to start over.” She held out her hand as if she were giving Helen a gift.

Helen shook it dutifully, and Blair said, “I thought if I helped you search these boxes, we could go through the Kingsley books faster. As I explained to Alexa, we need to put out more books.”

Helen didn’t like or trust Blair, but she figured she might as well get along with her while she worked at the library.

“You can take that stack by the door right now,” Helen said. “The boxes numbered one through ten. That should get you started.”

Blair propped open the door with the heavy, brass-trimmed wooden cart. She was taller than Helen, and had ropy muscles. Helen helped her load the boxes on the cart.

“There,” Helen said. “That’s the last one. It’s eleven o’clock and I have an appointment with Alexa.”

“Of course,” Blair said, all smiles. Helen watched her trundle the cart toward the Friends’ sorting room, then locked the Kingsley collection door and headed for the director’s office.

“Helen!” Alexa said, and greeted her with a genuine smile. “How’s progress?” The director looked more relaxed in her office, and she had more color.

Helen looked at the door. “Can we speak freely here?” she asked.

Alexa stepped into the hall and checked it. “It’s empty,” she said. “Did you find our ghost?”

“Yes,” Helen said. “That’s why I screamed this morning. I surprised her in the storage closet. As we guessed, she’s homeless. She lost her job in February.”

She quickly told Alexa the story. “Charlotte confessed to stealing the hurricane kit and eating the library food. And she found the watercolor.”

“The search is over?” Alexa said.

“At last,” Helen said.

“So where is the painting?”

“She hid it,” Helen said.

“She
what
? And you let her out of the building?” Alexa asked.

“Charlotte has a job interview at Norton Management Associates at noon,” Helen said. “It’s the third time they’ve called her back and she’s sure she’ll get the job. I let her go because I thought it was better if Charlotte had a job. Now she’ll be able to rent a home and pay back the money and goods she stole.”

“What’s she look like?” Alexa asked.

“Slender. Brunette. Rather plain, but dresses like a business professional,” Helen said.

“I can’t place her at all,” Alexa said. “She’s been slipping in and out of this building like a . . .”

She stopped.

“Ghost?” Helen said.

“What makes you think she’ll return?” Alexa said.

Charlotte has five thousand reasons, Helen thought, but I’m not telling Alexa the woman demanded half of my fee. But the price of Charlotte’s stolen goods is coming out of her share, not mine.

“All her clothes are still here in the library,” Helen said. “She has to come back. Besides, where is a young woman from Titansville, Missouri, going to sell a valuable watercolor?”

Clunk! Patter, patter, patter
.

“What’s that?” Helen said. “I heard something in the hall.” Alexa started to get up from behind her desk when Paris pranced into the room and rubbed against Helen’s legs. Helen scratched the cat’s tail and reached into her purse for more treats.

The calico sat up like a puppy and begged for them.

“Don’t overfeed her, Helen,” Alexa said. “She’s our organic mouse catcher, remember. She’s supposed to be a little bit hungry.”

Hungry. Feed. Helen saw herself stumbling out of bed this morning, with only minutes to spare before she was due at the library. Phil was long gone. He’d left for his undercover landscaping job at five this morning. Phil always fed Thumbs.

“Oh, no,” Helen said. “I forgot to feed my cat. Can I go home at lunch and give Thumbs some food?”

“Of course,” Alexa said. “Take an early lunch and leave now. But I need you here this afternoon.”

Helen hopped over the cat and ran out the staff door. She was back at the Coronado Tropic Apartments in fifteen minutes. As she slammed the door on the Igloo, she heard Thumbs howling.

She ran up the sidewalk past her landlady, who was lunching at an umbrella table. “Finally,” Margery said. “What’s wrong with the furbag?”

“I forgot to feed him this morning,” Helen called, as she sprinted past Margery.

An irate Thumbs met Helen at the door and bawled her out all the way to the kitchen.

As she poured his dry food, he nudged the bag out of the way and stuck his head in the bowl. Helen waited for Thumbs to come up for air, then filled his bowl again.

“Sorry, buddy,” she said.

He glared at her with golden green eyes, and she gave him a handful of treats from her purse. After she changed his water, Helen poured him yet another bowl. “Just in case I have to work late tonight,” she said.

Thumbs bumped her hand, a sign that she was forgiven. Helen fixed herself a chicken sandwich, poured a glass of iced tea and wandered out to join Margery at the pool.

Her landlady was in purple clam diggers and a breezy lavender top, enjoying a post-lunch Marlboro.

“How’s the case?” Margery asked.

“I found the ghost,” Helen said. “She’s a homeless woman, but not for much longer. She found the watercolor.”

“So did you turn it in?” Margery asked.

“No, I let her go on a job interview. She’s going to give it to me after she gets the job.”

Once again, Helen didn’t mention that Charlotte had claimed half of Helen’s fee. She was ashamed and angry—too angry to discuss it with Margery.

“And you let her go to that job interview alone?” Margery said.

“She’ll come back,” Helen said.

“I hope so,” Margery said. “I hope she’s safe.”

“Why wouldn’t she be?” Helen said.

“Your ghost could be in danger,” Margery said. “It’s easy to kill a dead woman. Who’s going to miss her?”

“W
hy is a book with the F-word in this library?” the woman demanded at the checkout desk. Jaw rigid, teeth clenched, her voice rose to a shriek as she said, “It’s in the children’s section!”

Dressed in full rich-lady rig, the woman wore a pink Chanel suit, ropes of pearls and gold, and heels. Her gray hair was sculpted into impossible waves.

Helen, back from lunch at the Coronado, was shelving novels nearby. She eased her massive mahogany-and-brass library cart closer to listen.

This was better than any fiction she was handling, especially with Gladys at the desk. The irate woman glared at Gladys as if she expected the librarian to crumple like a Kleenex.

“What word is that, Mrs. Sutherland?” Gladys asked. The tattooed librarian stood tall. She wasn’t intimidated by a rich patron.

Helen edged closer. Now she could see the offending children’s book,
Walter the Farting Dog
. She forced herself not to laugh. She’d read the series about the lovable gasbag hound when she’d worked at a bookstore.

“I can’t bring myself to say it,” Mrs. Sutherland said, and pointed to the F-word.

“Have you read the book?” Gladys asked.

“Of course not!” Mrs. Sutherland said. “As soon as I saw my grandson reading it, I tore it out of his hands and brought it straight back here. I want that book removed from this library. Now.”

Gladys handed Mrs. Sutherland a white form. “You must read the book and write a report on why you find it offensive before we can consider your request,” she said. “May I check it out for you?”

“Absolutely not! I want to speak to your supervisor. Immediately!”

Gladys looked around wildly for Alexa, but the director was nowhere in sight. Helen caught her frantic look, stepped up to the desk and said, “May I find the director for you?”

“Yes, please.”

Good for Gladys, Helen thought. She fearlessly withstood Mrs. Sutherland, who must be a force in this community.

Helen found Alexa at her office computer and filled her in on the crisis.

“We get this all the time,” Alexa said, and sighed. “Requesting a report almost always takes care of the problem. People who want books banned rarely read the works they want removed.”

Alexa marched to the checkout desk, where Mrs. Sutherland was lecturing Gladys on smut and America’s moral fiber.

“You wished to see me, Mrs. Sutherland?” Alexa asked.

“I wish to see this book out of my library!” she said.

“After you read it and write a report, we’ll consider your request,” Alexa said.

“That’s not acceptable,” Mrs. Sutherland said. “It should be removed instantly.”

“We have procedures,” Alexa said. “You have the right not to read any book in this library. You have the right to regulate your
grandson’s reading. But you do not have the right to ban books for the citizens of Flora Park without a hearing.”

“Then this is the last you’ll see of me and my family,” Mrs. Sutherland said, and swept out of the reading room.

“She seems to think that’s a threat,” Helen said.

“Please continue to shelve books, then take your break, Helen,” Alexa said, ignoring her remark. “I have another assignment for you at one thirty.”

Helen rolled her cart over to the large-print books section and went back to work.

Alexa turned to Gladys, who was trying hard not to laugh, and gave her a warm smile. “Good work,” she said. “You handled a difficult situation well. Would you like me to watch the desk while you have a cup of tea?”

“Tea! I’d like a stiff drink after dealing with that battle-ax,” Gladys said.

“Not at the library,” Alexa said, “but you deserve a long lunch. Be back by four.”

“Thanks,” Gladys said. “I’m outta here before you change your mind.”

Helen reached for the next book,
Definitely Dead
by Charlaine Harris.

D, E, F, G, H, Helen thought. Harris, C, goes before Harris, T, and she slid the book before Thomas Harris’s
Black Sunday
.

As she shelved books, she frequently recited sections of the alphabet. She found this never-ending library chore soothing. Helen liked putting the authors in their proper places, and straightening out literary jumbles, especially on the upper shelves.

She was pulling Nelson DeMille’s mysteries out of a cluster of Jeffery Deaver’s novels when she heard Alexa say, “You’re perfect for this job, Helen.”

“Really?” Helen said. “Is it my charm? My command of the alphabet?”

“Could be,” Alexa said, and grinned. “But you’re tall. It’s hard to get help who can reach the top shelves.”

Helen didn’t mention the times she’d been tempted to leave bottom-shelf books on the cart for the shorter librarians, but she’d felt duty-bound to put those books away, even though her knees had sounded like popcorn when she kneeled down.

“It’s one thirty,” Alexa said. “I need you to go upstairs and supervise the library computers. Every single machine is taken, and an impatient man is waiting. You’ll have to tell people their time is up and someone else needs their computer.”

“How will I know their time is up?” Helen asked.

“Check the sign-in sheet on the clipboard,” she said. “Each patron gets thirty minutes. Good luck.”

Helen didn’t like the sound of this. Once upstairs, she saw seven men and five women hunched protectively over their keyboards, while a fortysomething man with short grizzled hair and huge ears circled the table. The computer users ignored him, staring at their screens as if they’d disappear when they looked up.

The big-eared man headed straight for Helen. “Are you in charge? I’m David,” he said. “I have as much right to a computer as anyone in this room. I’ve been waiting
forty minutes
. No one will leave. Someone’s time has to be up by now.”

“I’ll help you, sir,” Helen said. She scanned the sign-in sheet. Time was up for computer number two, being used by Violet, a young woman with straight brown hair and a pretty complexion.

“Violet,” Helen said, “your time expired ten minutes ago.”

“I’m almost done,” Violet said. “I’m working on a paper.”

Helen glanced at the screen. A kitten jumped at a shadow and slid down the wall.

“It’s my turn,” David said.

“What kind of paper involves cat videos, Violet?” Helen said.

“It’s a sociology paper on the feline influence in societal memes,” Violet said.

“Your time is up,” Helen said again.

“One more minute,” Violet said. “I’m almost done. I had to wait a long time to get on. I’d be done already if this thing wasn’t so slow.”

“You’re finished now,” Helen said, and handed Violet her notebook. “David, please take the seat.”

Violet, her face pink with anger, slunk off, and David triumphantly took her seat.

Peace was restored. After the verbal tussle with Violet, the other patrons left quietly when their time was up. David used his computer for twenty minutes. During another rush, an older man complained his mouse was broken. Helen checked it and found the mouse was dead. She ran downstairs and found him a replacement, installed it, then found the right form and wrote a report about the defective equipment. Finally, two hours later, Helen was alone in the room, the computer screens blinking at her.

She read the browsing histories on computer six. The last patron had read an online magazine story headlined “Diane Keaton Says, ‘I don’t think Woody Allen molested Dylan Farrow.’” That same patron, or maybe the one before, had watched a YouTube video called “How to hot-wire a car.” Helen wondered if the library could be blamed if the local car theft rate went up.

She moved on to computer five. Someone had been reading “One Hundred Most Popular Baby Names.” Jackson and Sophia were the top names for boys and girls, Helen noticed.

The next story on the browser declared, “Egyptians used ferrets to guard their grain before they kept cats.”

Did the Egyptians have library ferrets? she wondered. Why did this ancient civilization switch from ferrets to cats? Did they worship ferrets the way they did felines?

Before she could find out, she was interrupted by the library director.

“Helen!” Alexa said.

Helen jumped. She hadn’t heard Alexa enter the room. “Please tell me you aren’t violating our patrons’ privacy by reading their browsing history,” she said.

“Uh,” Helen said.

“I’ll excuse you this time, since you didn’t know,” Alexa said. “But we don’t release information on what our patrons check out. We don’t tell anyone their reference questions. Actually, we don’t keep records on those, though some of our librarians keep lists of unusual questions.

“We also consider patrons’ database searches, interlibrary loans, any materials or equipment they use, even library fines and lost books, private information. Even law enforcement agencies can’t have this information unless they get a subpoena.

“Now, are we clear on this policy?”

“Yes,” Helen said. “A library is like Las Vegas. What happens here, stays here.”

Alexa looked a little startled, then said, “Yes, that’s correct. Unless a patron breaks the law in the library, and then we call the police. And where is your law-breaking homeless woman? Isn’t she supposed to be here by now? It’s three thirty.”

“Three thirty! Charlotte said she’d be back by three o’clock at the latest,” Helen said.

“Then call her cell phone.”

“I don’t know if she has one,” Helen said. “If she does, I don’t have her number.”

But she has mine, Helen thought. She saw Charlotte in her mind’s eye, dressed in that navy suit, reaching into the storage closet for her briefcase, then disappearing down the hall with the briefcase.

A briefcase big enough to hold a million-dollar watercolor.

And Helen hadn’t checked it.