The Chocolate Book Bandit (13 page)

Hmm. Had she and the other supporters of the upgrade had Butch in mind for the job all along? This has been known to happen. Had one or more of them known him earlier? Or had they been genuinely convinced that the Warner Pier Public Library should have a director with an MLS, and Butch happened to be the best-qualified applicant?

I decided that I wanted to find out. Who could I ask?

How about the president of the board, Rhonda Ringer-Riley?

I pulled my van into a handy parking lot, looked up Rhonda’s phone number on my cell phone, and called her. Her answering machine promised she’d call me back.

I left my number and clicked my phone off, then drove on. Until I heard from Rhonda, I could do nothing about the library. I realized I was sorry I couldn’t talk to her immediately. It was so much better to worry about the death of Abigail Montgomery than to worry about Joe and Meg getting together. Once I put the library out of my mind, that problem settled on my shoulders like a portable fog.

I drove back to the office and spent a miserable hour staring at my computer, not thinking about the accounts it displayed, wishing I could go home and curl up in a ball, and being determined not to do that. No, whatever the threat to my life—love life, personal life, married life—I couldn’t fight it by quitting.

But how could I fight Meg? What weapon did I have to use against her past, against Joe’s past? Whatever happened between them back in high school still haunted Joe. How could I break that pattern?

I was worrying so hard that when the phone rang I nearly fell off my chair.

“Lee? It’s Betty.”

For a moment I couldn’t think of who I knew named Betty. My answer must have sounded completely blank. “Yes?”

“I was looking through my financial files, Lee, because I needed to post the latest bills. I’ve run across something really odd. Could I talk to you about it?”

Now I knew who it was. Betty Blake, of course. “Sure,” I said. “What is it?”

“Probably nothing. But I can’t talk now. Gwen’s setting up for the movie, and I need to help her. Could you drop by here after work?”

“Of course. But what’s the problem?”

“It’s not a problem exactly. It’s just something odd. You’ll probably be able to explain it right away.”

“I’ll be there around five.”

“Thanks.” She hung up.

What was all that about?

At four forty-five I gave up trying to work and walked the three blocks to the library. The place was rocking. The reading room had been turned into a TV viewing area, and about twenty-five kids were watching some Disney flick. It was hard to tell which was noisier, the kids or the movie.

A half dozen people were lined up at the circulation desk. One of them was Tony Herrera Jr., who is sort of my nephew, being the son of Joe’s stepbrother and my friend Lindy. He’s a good-looking guy of thirteen. We gave each other a casual wave.

“Hi, Tony.” I gestured at the sheaf of photocopies he was holding. “Working on a report?”

“Yeah. I’m ready to go home, as soon as Alicia gets out of the movie, but I gotta pay for my copies, and there’s nobody here to take my money.”

The teenaged girl in line ahead of him gave a deep sigh. “Where did Mrs. Blake disappear to? I’m going to be late to work if I don’t get these books checked out.”

“That’s funny,” I said. “Mrs. Blake is so conscientious. Isn’t there anyone else around?”

“That new guy was here a little while ago,” Tony said.

“I’ll look in his office.”

I went to the back of the building. The door to the director’s office was closed. When I knocked, Butch’s baritone answered. “Come in.”

My stomach fluttered, but I pretended it hadn’t and opened the door. I asked Butch if he knew where Betty was, explaining that she seemed to have disappeared.

“Odd,” Butch said, getting up. “I can fill in. But I wonder where Betty is.”

“I’ll look upstairs. Maybe she’s been treed by an irate patron and is stuck on top of one of the stacks.”

Butch laughed and headed toward the circulation desk.

I glanced up and down the aisles of the downstairs and walked through the staff workroom. When I peeked out the back door I saw that the basement was still sealed. Then I went back into the main room and climbed the stairway to the second floor, home of adult books.

At first, the whole floor appeared to be deserted. Where could Betty have gone? Had she left the building? Why would she ask me to come over, then not be there?

I walked through the shelves, looking over sections for mysteries and science fiction. No Betty. Then I ventured into general fiction—everything from Cervantes to Elinor Glyn—and moved toward nonfiction.

When I reached the back corner I gave an enormous gasp. I almost screamed.

One of the shelving units had fallen over, landing so that it was propped against the outside wall. All the books had tumbled out and were lying heaped on the floor.

And a pair of shoes was sticking out from under the books.

I guess I kept my head. I pulled out my phone and called 9-1-1. Then I did something that might seem cold-blooded: I took a quick photo of the scene with my phone. Next, I ran to the stairway, wanting to get attention from someone downstairs.

I couldn’t yell for Butch, who was still standing at the desk, because of the noise from the movie and the children. Luckily, Tony was still in line, and I was able to catch his attention. I pointed to Butch and motioned that he should come upstairs.

I ran back to Betty, and again I used my phone to take a picture of the scene. I wanted to get the books off of Betty, but I knew Hogan would want to see the scene as I had originally found it.

These were a lot of different activities, but I don’t think more than a minute went by between the time I first saw Betty and the time when I crawled under the leaning bookshelf and began to haul books off her motionless body.

The shoes had immediately told me Betty was the person under the books. They were the same run-over loafers she’d been wearing when we met for lunch.

Tony, as curious as any kid, ran upstairs to see what was going on. I tried to block his view of those horrible feet, and I sent him back down to wait at the front door and show the EMTs where to come. I had some vague hope that having a job would keep him away from the scene and, maybe, from being traumatized.

Of course, the 9-1-1 operator had wanted to follow the usual procedure and keep me on the line, but I told her if she had the EMTs on the way I was hanging up. I stuck the phone in my pocket, and I kept tossing books aside. In a few minutes Butch came upstairs, looking puzzled. As soon as he saw what had happened, he also began to dig through the books, throwing them behind him.

The EMTs and the Warner Pier patrolman got there within ten minutes. They made us move away from the fallen shelf, of course; I think they were afraid that it would slip and knock more shelves over. They didn’t want more victims.

Hogan also came quickly. He suggested that Butch and I make lists of the people present downstairs. “Just the adults,” he said. “And don’t try to keep people here. It’s better for that mob of kids to leave.”

When we went down the movie had ended, and the children were louder than ever. Gwen asked me what had happened, and I whispered a quick explanation. She offered to help with the lists of names. Butch furnished each of us with paper and pencil. Then he announced to the whole room that there had been an accident upstairs and suggested that everybody leave. But he would like to have the adults’ names, he said, just in case witnesses were needed later.

I don’t think I would have gotten away with that, but Butch had that authoritative voice. All those moms and grandmas and babysitters and kids obeyed him. There were two or three other patrons there as well, including Corny Cornwall. Corny offered to stay and help, but Butch told him it wasn’t necessary. After fifteen or twenty minutes no one was left but Gwen and her two kids, and Tony. His younger sister was waiting in front of the library.

I thanked Tony for helping out. He looked upset, of course. “Lee, was there someone under those books?”

“I’m afraid so, Tony. The EMTs are getting her out now.”

“I guess she’s dead.”

“I’m afraid she is, Tony.”

“I guess it’s Mrs. Blake.”

I nodded and took his hand. Even a step-aunt can’t hug a thirteen-year-old boy in public. “It’s terribly sad, and you’ve helped a lot.”

“I better get Alicia home,” he said. He walked out with his head high. I was proud of him. Then I called his mom and told her what had happened and how Tony had been involved. She promised to be ready for emotional storms.

When Tony had asked about Betty Blake, I had told him the truth. By then I felt certain that Betty was dead. If there had been any signs of life, the EMTs would have been rushing her to the hospital, but no gurney had been carried down the stairs. A few minutes later the portable crime lab operated by the Michigan State Police arrived, and I gave up any hope for her.

I turned back to Gwen and Butch. We looked at each other and took deep breaths.

Gwen was frowning. “Did you say a shelf fell over? And all the books fell out?”

“That’s what it looked like,” Butch said. “It must have made quite a rumble. Did you hear anything?”

“No! Of course, this movie was loud.”

“I guess that was it,” Butch said. “I didn’t hear anything either.”

“What a weird accident,” Gwen said. She collected her kids—the baby had stayed home that day—and left.

As she went out, Rhonda Ringer-Riley came in. It was the first time I’d ever seen her without her knitting bag.

She shook hands with Butch and nodded to me.

“Goodness gracious!” she said. “Another disaster. What a run of bad luck.”

I almost laughed. Yeah, murder can be awfully unlucky.

Then I felt sick. Both Gwen and Rhonda assumed Betty’s death was an accident. I assumed that it wasn’t.

Of course, I said nothing. Although Butch and I assured Rhonda that she didn’t need to stay, she didn’t leave. “I guess I’d better act as if I’m the board chair,” she said.

So we waited. I called and left a message for Joe, explaining what had happened. I guess I hoped he’d run right down to the library to hold my hand, but that didn’t happen. In a while Hogan came down, asked Butch and me for preliminary statements, and told us we could go home. Butch said he would stay and close the building, but Rhonda and I didn’t need a second suggestion. We were out the door immediately. We both stopped on the sidewalk.

“Whew!” Rhonda said. “What a mess!”

“It’s a nightmare. I liked Betty.”

“So did I.” Rhonda turned to me. “Oh. You called me this afternoon, but I didn’t get a chance to return your call.”

“It seemed important at the time, but now . . .” Actually, I did still want to know. “I was wondering if any particular board member, or board members, had pushed for the hiring of Butch.”

Rhonda looked troubled. “It wouldn’t do much good for a board member to do that. The city personnel director did the screening and the formal interviews.”

“Oh? I thought the board interviewed the finalists.”

“Yes, we did. But our vote was merely advisory.”

“It’s bound to have a strong influence.”

“We like to think it does.” Rhonda smiled.

“Did the board recommend Butch?”

“The personnel manager selected three finalists, and we talked to all of them.”

Was it my imagination, or was getting information out of her like pulling teeth? I had asked her a yes-or-no question. Was she dodging it?

I didn’t repeat my question. I just tried to look expectant, as if Rhonda were going to give me an answer.

Finally she spoke. “We ranked the three we talked to.”

I kept looking expectant.

“And, yes, uh—yes, Butch was our first choice.”

“And did any particular board member lead the charge, so to speak, in urging the board to back Butch?”

“Butch has excellent qualifications, Lee.”

“Oh yes! I’ve read the article about him in the
Gazette
. He sounds ideal. I guess I was just wondering if he had any local connections.”

Rhonda still looked a little wary. “I don’t know of any specific connections,” she said. “But I will say that Abigail Montgomery thought he was the best choice. And Miss Vanderklomp, though she doesn’t have a vote, was strongly in favor of him as well.”

Rhonda and I were saying good-bye as I saw Carol Turley’s car skid into a parking place at the end of the block. Carol jumped out and came toward us, stumbling along with her usual awkward gait.

The final board member, I thought. At least the library had an active, responsive board. Rhonda and I walked down to meet her.

“I can’t believe this!” Carol said.

“How did you hear?” Rhonda asked.

“Betty’s daughter called me. The police came to her job to tell her. I guess she thought I’d know something.”

“I don’t think anybody knows much yet,” Rhonda said. “Lee found her.”

Over to me. I gave Carol a quick report of how I’d discovered Betty.

Carol had only one question. “Is she dead?”

Rhonda and I told her we assumed that she was. “It’s a very strange accident,” Rhonda said.

This drew an odd, sideways glance and another question from Carol. “Were both of you here when it happened?”

“No,” I said. “Betty asked me to drop by after work.”

“Why?”

“I have no idea. She said she had a bookkeeping question for me, but she didn’t have time to tell me what it was. But she’d gone upstairs at least ten minutes before I got here.”

“How do you know?”

“Because when I came in there was a line of people waiting at the circulation desk. Some of them were griping about how long they’d been waiting. If Betty had been able to come to the desk, she would have been there. She struck me as a thoroughly reliable person.”

“Yes,” Carol said sadly. Her hands were shaking. “Betty was always reliable.”

I went home then. Somehow I wasn’t surprised that Joe wasn’t there when I arrived. In fact, he’d left a message for me saying he was staying in Holland for dinner for a second straight night.

Bummer.

This time I succumbed to the desire to curl up in a ball and feel sorry for myself. Not that I literally curled up in a ball. But I did put on my oldest jeans and scramble some eggs, even if I had to eat them without English muffins. I found tortillas, sharp cheese, and salsa and made some little burrito-like things.

They tasted pretty good, especially with an episode of
House Hunters
on HGTV. HGTV is definitely part of my method of curling up into a ball.

I guess I had been hungry, because I felt better after I’d eaten. I was peppy enough to rekindle my interest in Butch Cassidy’s background. I did this in the full knowledge that I was indulging my crush. Yes, I recognized that I had a crush on Butch Cassidy, just the way I’d once worshipped a certain TV star, and the way Tony’s older sister, Marcia, now had a crush on the teen idol Marco Spear.

It was a totally stupid way for a woman in her thirties to feel, but I didn’t care. I wanted to think about him, and looking up his background was one way to do it.

I turned off the television and found the article that sketched Butch’s background when he was named director of the Warner Pier Public Library.

There was his education—bachelor’s degree from Western Michigan and master’s from the University of Michigan. There was his upbringing—Detroit area. His early job history—U.S. Army for twenty years. He got his undergraduate degree while he was in the army. Then he held library jobs in the Ann Arbor area and at the university while he was in grad school. His age was forty-one. That meant he’d been in his late thirties before he started graduate school.

It all seemed fairly complete. But maybe there was more. I Googled him.

Henry Cassidy. University of Michigan. Information science.

A few items came up, but none sounded likely. Hmmm. I decided to take advantage of being married to a U of M graduate. I found Joe’s hidden password and accessed the University of Michigan alumni lists. I searched them. I searched them again. I looked back at the article from the
Warner Pier Weekly Gazette
. Yes, it said that Butch had received his MLS the previous June. I found the list of MLS recipients. I read it. I read it again.

Finally I gave up.

Wha’d’ya know. No one named Cassidy had received an MLS from the University of Michigan in June.

As far as I could figure out from the alumni lists, Butch had never received such a degree at all.

Was my crush a fraud?