Stranded (11 page)

“Should I tell them where you are?” Mac asked.

As usual, I hesitated. I always figured the Braxtons could be quite ruthless when trying to obtain information about my whereabouts, and I didn’t want Magnolia and Geoff caught in the cross fire.

“Better not,” I said regretfully. “But maybe we’ll see you later on, if you get out this way.”

“Abilene still with you?” Mac and Abilene had met when we were all in Oklahoma.

“She’s here. She starts work in a veterinarian’s office tomorrow.”

“Hey, great! She’ll like that.” Small pause, and then he said warily, “You’re not involved in any more murders, are you?”

“What do you think, that just because I’ve encountered a murder or two in the past that they follow me around like a cloud of doom?” I said indignantly. Although to be honest, I had to add, “One happened before I got here, but I’m hardly involved.”

Living in the house where the murder occurred isn’t necessarily being involved, right? Although I prudently decided there was no need to inform Mac of that particular circumstance.

“Okay. I miss you, Ivy.”

“I miss you too.”

A wind came up in the night, and the old house creaked and groaned, and, with a little imagination, I could think the branches scratching the walls were something trying to get in. Or something inside trying to get out . . .

But I didn’t let my imagination roar into overdrive. Instead I thought about Mac and had a rather lovely dream about the two of us riding carousel horses together, gently rising and falling to a lovely tinkle of calliope music.

At least it was lovely until a dead body plummeted out of the sky and landed on us. I do seem to attract them.

9

I was at the impressive double doors of the Historical Society’s brick building at 10:10 the following morning. The sign carved in concrete overhead didn’t specify Ladies Society, but, given the name everyone used, apparently the ladies had claimed possession at some time. The day was sunny but chilly, streets bare but yards still covered with snow, and ice clung to shadowy spots on the sidewalks that sunshine hadn’t yet reached. I’d worn a denim skirt, thinking that should fit the pioneer theme of a historical society, and my heavy down jacket.

Inside the high-ceilinged room, glass cabinets held exhibits of smaller items of old mining equipment, such as gold pans and a gold scale, plus another cabinet of Indian arrowheads and beadwork. Larger exhibits of a metal ore cart, a long, wooden sluice box, and part of a stamp mill for pulverizing gold ore stood alone, surrounding photos showing how the equipment was used. In one corner, an old miner’s camp was set up, complete with life-size figures of a grizzled miner and his gray donkey, with an old blue enamel coffeepot just like Hiram’s on a grate over an imitation campfire. A display of books and pamphlets about local history stood on one side of the entrance, a rack of touristy brochures about local accommodations and activities on the other.

Two doors led off to the right. One was open, but from this angle I couldn’t see inside.

An impressive archway opened to the left, a sign over it reading “Hiram L. McLeod Memorial Library.” Beyond loomed a room of impressive size with tall, polished bookshelves and the ceiling covered with some sort of murky green mural. From this distance, the mural gave the feeling that you were underwater and looking up at the underside of trash floating on a layer of pond scum. But perhaps it looked better if you were directly under it. A faint scent of new wood and plaster and paint emanated from the room. The most notable feature of the “library,” however, was the fact that the shelves were as empty as old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.

I suddenly realized I was being watched. An old oak desk stood at the rear of the main room, a couple of wooden filing cabinets behind it. Two older women were at the desk, one sitting in front of a computer, one standing. I approached them. Often, as an inconspicuous older woman, I feel quite invisible, but that was not the case now. Both women were staring at me as if I were quite fascinating, and I wondered if I’d unknowingly had a major wardrobe malfunction, and the thong panties Sandy had sent me were tangled around my ankles. More likely, I reassured myself, it was just that since I was the only visitor, I was the only one to watch. But perhaps I shouldn’t have chosen today as the first day to try wearing the thong panties. They did feel quite peculiar.

I approached the desk. “Hello. I’m Ivy Malone. Lucinda O’Mallory told me you were looking for someone to organize and catalog the books for the new library.”

“Yes, we need someone to do that, if we can find someone with suitable qualifications. Lucinda called me about you, but we were thinking of”—she gave me a critical appraisal from my possum-gray hair to my short legs and sensible shoes—“someone somewhat younger. It’s a challenging position.”

The woman who spoke was the standing one, a tall, thin lady about my age, with a formidable beak of a nose, severely pulled-back hair dyed crow-black, large diamond earrings, and a stark black pantsuit. She’d probably been aiming for a look of elegance and sophistication, but, unfortunately, the effect was more scarecrow-in-mourning. I thought about nicely reminding her about laws concerning age discrimination, or not so nicely asking what a skinny old scarecrow like her was doing acting as if age were a blight on a person’s abilities and character.

However, because I needed this job, I diplomatically said, “Did you have some particular qualifications in mind?”

“Can you revive a computer?” the one with her plump fingers on the keyboard of the older computer asked. Brick-red lipstick and fingernail polish matched her improbably brick-red hair, but the blue eyes she turned on me had an unexpected girlish friendliness. “I think I’ve killed this one. See?”

She angled the screen toward me. The plump fingers raced over the keyboard, hammering haphazardly at letters and numbers and control keys. The arrow on the screen ignored her spirited activity, like a child blithely ignoring a screaming mother.

“Does it do this often?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Marianne usually runs the computer, but she’s down in Texas visiting her daughter, and this important letter needs to go out. You want to give it a try?”

Skinny Scarecrow protested. “Stella, I don’t think—”

“Oh, come on. How much damage can she do? It’s already on its last legs. Or last kilobytes, or whatever it is computers have.” She stood up and smiled. “By the way, I’m Stella Sinclair, and this is Victoria Halburton. You said your name was Ivy?”

“Yes. Ivy Malone.”

Stella held out her plump hand, enviably unveined or age-marked, and we shook. The name Sinclair sounded vaguely familiar, and after a moment I placed it. Perhaps this was the Mrs. Sinclair Kelli had mentioned, with the Godiva-–chocolate-guzzling potbellied pig. “You’re new in town?” Stella asked.

“Yes.” I hesitated briefly. I didn’t want to jinx a job possibility, but neither did I intend to dodge my connection with the young woman who had befriended us, a woman whom I was convinced was quite innocent of the accusations against her. “Kelli Keifer is letting us stay at the McLeod house.” Out of the blue, words came out of my mouth that I hadn’t even thought about saying. “I’ve had some experience in criminal investigation, and I may be able to help in determining the identity of her Uncle Hiram’s killer.”

Stella’s blue eyes rounded, and I felt a little guilty. I had indeed helped uncover some killers, but I was no Jessica Fletcher of
Murder, She Wrote
expertise. And Skinny Scarecrow was not impressed.

“There’s little doubt about the identity of the killer,” she said loftily. “It’s just a matter of the authorities gathering the proper evidence, which I’m sure they’ll have before long.”

“In the meantime,” I said, “innocent until proven guilty.”

Victoria frowned, but she could hardly deny that axiom. “Of course,” she agreed stiffly.

“So, let’s have a look at that computer,” I said as if I knew exactly what I was doing and could whip the computer into shape with a few keystrokes.

I circled the desk, removed my heavy jacket, and hung it on the back of the chair. I resisted the urge to flex my fingers, as if I were about to give a command performance at the piano, and gave the computer the standard ctrl-alt-delete key combination. No response. It was froze up solid. Grandniece Sandy had said the best thing to do in a situation such as this was turn everything off and start over. So, still pretending I knew more than I did, I briskly shut everything down, waited a few seconds, and turned it on again. The screen disapprovingly informed me that the computer hadn’t been shut down properly, but after a brief scan to check its internal condition, it revved up nicely. Not only was the computer old, I realized, so was the program they were using. Windows 98. Stella hadn’t saved anything before the computer froze up, but she had a hand-scribbled copy of what the letter should say. I briskly typed it out and printed two copies on a noisy old inkjet printer. It was a letter to a company complaining that the new coffeemaker had died only two days after the warranty expired, and the Society, as a worthy nonprofit organization, hoped it could be replaced. An “important” letter indeed. The Society must not be without its coffee.

Stella pressed her hands together when she read the printed letter. I’d fixed up a couple of problems with punctuation and grammar. “Oh, that’s wonderful!”

Even Victoria seemed mildly impressed. “Indeed, this is very helpful.”

“Perhaps I could fill out an application for the position?” I briefly ran through my qualifications.

“I say we hire her,” Stella declared.

“I’m not sure we can do it without calling a membership meeting and voting on it,” Skinny Scarecrow (no, no, I must think of her as Victoria) demurred.

“Oh, cabbages. That will take too long. Ivy is perfect for the job, and she might have something else by then and not be available.”

Stella looked at me, and I nodded, liking her. (How not to like someone who indulges a potbellied pig in chocolate treats, substitutes cabbages for some unacceptable word, and even says you’re perfect?) “Yes, that’s possible,” I agreed. Although privately I suspected there was about as much chance of my instantly finding another job in Hello as there was of the president tapping me for a position on the Supreme Court.

“Here comes Charlotte!” Stella exclaimed as the front door opened. “We can make a committee of three with her and do it.”

A tall woman, mid-fiftyish, which put her somewhat younger than Victoria and Stella, smartly dressed in narrow taupe skirt, slim-heeled boots, and fur-collared jacket, walked briskly toward us. I doubted her long blond hair was natural, but the coloring and highlights were expertly done, and it had a bouncy swing as she walked. She set her oversized leather purse on the desk. It had a prominent metal initial on it, which I supposed meant something expensive, although I wasn’t knowledgeable enough to know what.

“Stella, hon, do we have anything about the history of the old Randolph place over on Mountain Street? I’ve just listed it, and buyers are always fascinated by historical details.”

“Really, Charlotte, we can’t use the Society computer for personal projects,” Victoria huffed.

“All they need to know about that old place is that if the termites stop holding hands, it’ll fall down around them,” Stella stated.

The woman named Charlotte drew back her head. “With a little imagination and effort, the Randolph house could be made quite charming. I think we should take pride in our old structures.”

It was an admirable enough statement, but the woman came off sounding stuffy, pretentious, and holier-than-thou.

“Okay, I’ll see if I can find anything.” Stella waved a dismissive hand. “Right now we have something more important. We have the perfect candidate for our librarian position, and if we don’t grab her right now we’ll lose her.”

I doubted that, but I didn’t contradict her.

Stella pointed at me. “This is Ivy Malone. She was a librarian for thirty years. And she knows all about computers.”

Charlotte gave a small blink, and I realized that until then she hadn’t even noticed me behind the desk at the computer. So I hadn’t lost my invisibility after all. Good. Sometimes it comes in handy.