Authors: Elaine Viets
T
he Flora Park Library was as beautiful as its name, Helen thought. The color of dawn light, the two-story building had a sun-warmed barrel-tile roof and graceful arched windows. A curving wrought-iron fence wrapped around the Mediterranean building like an elegant vine.
She parked her car in the library lot, next to Elizabeth’s. It was a little after ten in the morning and Helen had agreed to go straight to the library with Elizabeth and get started.
Flora Park was an islandlike enclave on the New River, at the edge of Fort Lauderdale. Helen decided the library looked like an estate in the south of France.
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Elizabeth said. “Stately.”
“Stately seems so formal,” Helen said. “This library is inviting.”
“Flora Portland would certainly welcome us,” Elizabeth said, as they passed through the open gates surrounding the library gardens. Rustling palm trees shaded the thick, velvety grass. “This was Flora’s house for almost twenty years. It was built to her specifications.”
“She must have been quite a woman,” Helen said.
“Flora was no fragile flower,” Elizabeth said, her heels clicking on the walkway pavers. “She was as strong-willed as she was beautiful. In the early 1890s, she defied her parents to marry the man she loved. Turned down two proposals.”
“Young women didn’t do that back then,” Helen said.
“Especially not rich, well-brought-up ones,” Elizabeth said. “Grandmama told me the story. She admired Flora greatly. The Portland family was in railroads, and she had many suitors. Flora refused to marry a titled Englishman. It wasn’t a love match. He needed pots of money to restore the family home. But Flora learned he’d impregnated a teenage maid and refused him, even though his family did the right thing and married the maid to the second gardener. Flora’s refusal ruined her mother’s attempt to get into London society. She took her troublesome daughter home to New York, where Flora turned down the banker her father favored.
“Instead, Flora eloped to Paris with her college tutor, Lucian Humboldt. Her parents disinherited her, but Flora had a handsome trust from her maternal grandmother. She and Lucian lived in style abroad until the mid-twenties, when she built this mansion.”
Elizabeth opened the library’s etched glass door and she and Helen stepped into a light-filled lobby. Sunlight danced in a crystal chandelier and burnished the sweep of the grand staircase.
But Helen was drawn to the full-length portrait of a brown-haired beauty in a slim lavender gown. She wore her big-brimmed mauve hat at a rakish angle and looked straight at the world.
“Hello, Flora,” Helen said. She studied Flora’s surprisingly modern face with its high cheekbones. A strong woman, she decided. And a smart one.
“This picture was painted right before she eloped, wasn’t it? I can see the triumph in her face.”
“Perceptive,” Elizabeth said. “Flora crowned herself queen of Flora Park when she and her husband moved here in 1925. This
was a happy house. The couple hosted literary discussions and musical evenings. When the widowed Flora died in 1941, she left this mansion, their books and a generous trust to Flora Park for a community library—with one stipulation. That picture would stay in the lobby.”
Elizabeth nodded toward a series of arches behind the staircase. “Much of the popular library is back there. The director’s office is down this hall. Alexa Stuart Andrews agreed to meet us at ten thirty this morning.”
“Before we meet Ms. Andrews, please explain these library titles and organizations,” Helen asked. “I’m going to be a volunteer. Does that make me a Friend of the Library?”
“You could be a Friend,” Elizabeth said. “The Friends are a nonprofit organization dedicated to supporting the library. Our dues are ten dollars a year. We have our own board, and decide how our fund-raising will benefit the library. Of course, the library staff has some input.”
Helen didn’t want to think about the genteel power struggles those words implied.
“Last year, the Friends gave this library eighty thousand dollars to create a children’s section,” Elizabeth said.
“You have that many children in Flora Park?” Helen asked.
“We have very few young families,” Elizabeth said, “but lots of grandchildren. The Friends bought children’s books and DVDs and child-sized furniture.
“You could pay the dues and become a Friend, but for your investigation you’ll be a volunteer. You’ll work for the library staff and be subject to the library’s policies for volunteers.”
“And Alexa, the director, is the boss?” Helen said.
“You make her sound like she wears a hard hat,” Elizabeth said, but softened her remark with a faint smile. “Alexa is definitely in charge. Most definitely.”
Helen followed Elizabeth down a rather dark hall with lustrous wood floors, carved Spanish tables and curlicued cabinets. “The furniture is from Flora’s time,” Elizabeth said. She stopped at a glass door to a book-lined room with a thick pink-and-gray Oriental rug. “Alexa’s office is the former morning room,” she said. “It overlooks the ground floor and has a view of the back gardens.”
Alexa Andrews was frowning at her black desktop computer. Helen guessed the library director was about her age—early forties. She looked like a successful CEO. Alexa’s shoulder-length dark hair had a dramatic white streak that framed her fine-boned face. Her pale blue suit was soft and stylish.
“Miss Hawthorne,” she said, and shook Helen’s hand. Helen and Elizabeth sat in the button-tufted barrel chairs opposite her desk, and Alexa got down to business.
“Elizabeth has explained her dilemma to me,” she said, “and I’ve agreed to let you work here as a volunteer, even though my decision will make some people very unhappy.”
“Why?” Helen asked.
“Volunteer positions at our library are highly coveted,” she said.
I should have known, Helen thought. The rich want to do their civic duty, but prefer not to get their hands dirty. Raising money for a worthy cause with a fashionable gala was acceptable. Mixing with actual unfortunates was not. Genteel library volunteer positions would be in demand.
“Seraphina Ormond, who belongs to a Flora Park first family, believes she is entitled to the next volunteer position.”
“What’s a first family?” Helen asked.
“Seraphina’s great-grandparents bought one of the first houses in Flora Park.”
“And that real estate deal gives their family the right to rule Flora Park forever?” Helen asked.
“Of course not,” Alexa said, but her smile wasn’t quite as bright. Helen decided to back off. She didn’t want to get into an entitlement debate.
“But they’ve been here so long, the first families have certain expectations,” Alexa said. “I believe these positions should be given on merit. Seraphina and her friends will be quite annoyed when you get the post.”
“Couldn’t you say I’m only here temporarily?” Helen asked.
“Oh, no,” Alexa said. “We must keep your true mission confidential.
“I’ve asked the Friends of the Library to hold off selling the other books from Mr. Kingsley’s library until they’ve been examined. I’ve said it was a legal issue.”
“Which it is,” Elizabeth said. She was wringing her hands and Helen thought she seemed defensive.
“Exactly,” Alexa said. “The last thing we want is someone creating a stir. It’s bad enough we have a ghost.”
“A what?” Helen said.
Alexa sighed, and tugged on her white streak. “I was going to call in a private eye anyway, and I’ve heard that you’re very discreet. Some people believe the ghost of Flora Portland is haunting this library. I think it’s ridiculous. I don’t believe in ghosts. Flora was a fine woman and I’m sure she’s resting in peace, not roaming this library. Besides, I’ve seen signs that a human is behind this alleged haunting.”
“What are the signs?” Helen asked.
“Food is missing from the staff break room, books reshelved in the wrong places and three emergency flashlights have disappeared.”
“The flashlights could have been stolen,” Helen said. “I worked at a bookstore and stock was mis-shelved all the time. As for the missing food, I’ve worked at offices where my colleagues swiped my lunch or ate my snacks.”
“All true, but our hurricane kit was taken, and that was a substantial loss.”
“What was in it?” Helen asked.
“The usual: jugs of water, juices, peanut butter, breakfast bars, canned fruit, raisins, chips, a can opener, paper plates and plastic utensils, trash bags, blankets and pillows, toiletries, wipes, a tarp.”
“Why a tarp?” Helen asked.
“In case there are holes in the building.”
“Right,” Helen said. Floridians were all too familiar with blue tarps after Hurricanes Wilma and Katrina.
“The biggest losses were a battery-operated television and five hundred dollars in small bills to purchase additional supplies.”
“And you haven’t found any peanut butter jars, juice bottles or food wrappers in the library?” Helen asked.
“Nothing that wasn’t left behind by patrons. The TV has disappeared, along with the blankets and pillows.”
“It is October,” Helen said. “And hurricane season is still on for a month.”
“All true, Ms. Hawthorne. But I still don’t believe in ghosts. Nor do I believe our patrons would steal from us. And our staff is completely trustworthy.”
I’ve heard variations on the “everyone here is honest” theme before, Helen thought. The client is usually surprised when a trusted person turns out to be a crook.
“Has Flora always haunted the library?” she asked.
“Certainly not!” Alexa said. “The haunting started about a month ago, after a heated library board meeting. This is a well-built historic home, Ms. Hawthorne, and Flora Portland’s trust is enough to maintain it. But historic homes do not have reinforced floors, and books are heavy. An average hardback weighs close to a pound, and we have several hundred thousand pounds of books in this building.
“At first, we kept the bookshelves along the walls, but as the
collection grew, we put a bookcase in the middle of the floor, then another, and, well, they kept multiplying. Now the floors upstairs are sagging and we have problems with the first floor, too.
“We hired an engineer to evaluate the problem. At the board meeting, he told us the cost of reinforcing the floors in this historic building would exhaust the rest of Flora Portland’s trust. The library would have to be closed for at least a year. We were shocked.
“Then the engineer said it would be less expensive to have a new purpose-built library with floors that could bear the load, and new plumbing and heating systems away from the collections. You can imagine the response that got. Our board president said that Flora would turn over in her grave.”
“Would this building be torn down?” Helen asked.
“Oh, no,” Alexa said. “It’s historic. It would be turned into a community center. I’d hate to move, but a new building would have reinforced floors, accessibility ramps, a delivery dock. I love this building, but we might be able to serve our patrons better with a new library. Right now, the board is split—three members want to renovate and three want to build a new library. But our heritage is important. If the library could come up with the money, the vote would be unanimous to renovate.”
“Where do you stand on the matter?” Helen asked.
“I’m completely neutral,” Alexa said. “The matter is still being discussed, but shortly after the meeting, some of our patrons and staff said that Flora Portland was haunting her library. A week later, a patron—a rather excitable older woman—reported seeing a slender young woman with brown hair running through the stacks. Then Lisa, the president of the library board, said she saw the same thing and the so-called ghost was wearing a long lavender dress. Lisa is an influential person here.
“That story made our community paper, the
Flora Park
Gazette
, and since then, the sightings and rumors have been running wild.
“I want these rumors stopped, Ms. Hawthorne,” the director said, and glared at Helen as if she’d started them. “I want you to find that so-called ghost. The library will pay your regular rate. Bring the contract back by five this afternoon and I’ll sign it.”
“Certainly,” Helen said. This is a dream job, she thought. I get to work at this gorgeous library and hunt for a ghost.
“You can smile, Ms. Hawthorne,” Alexa said, “but your work will not be easy or pleasant. I believe this ghost started as a prank, possibly by someone who doesn’t want the library to change. But now it’s a nuisance. It upsets the staff and patrons and disrupts the library. People are jumpy and edgy. Someone has already been hurt.
“Lisa, the library board president, actually hit a patron with a heavy brass bookend because she thought Flora’s ghost had ‘jumped out at her.’ The poor woman was simply reaching for a reference book in the upstairs study room. She was young, had brown hair and wore a purple sundress. She needed six stitches in her scalp. Fortunately, she did not have a concussion.
“It’s a delicate situation. The board runs this library, and I serve at their pleasure. I have to tread carefully. I can’t offend Lisa, but I can’t have our patrons attacked, either.
“Someone is playing a dangerous game, Ms. Hawthorne. I want it stopped before an innocent person dies.”
“D
id you get the job?” Phil asked.
Helen’s husband and PI partner had been pounding the computer keys in the Coronado Investigations office when she walked in after the library visit. She paused to admire her new husband. She liked his long, silver white hair, tied back in a ponytail, his thin aristocratic nose and his blue eyes. She kissed the little worry wrinkle on his forehead.
“Job? I have two jobs,” Helen said. “Three, if you count my highly coveted volunteer job at the Flora Park Library. But only two are paid: I’m searching for the missing million-dollar alligator art, and now the library wants me to be a ghost buster.”
“The library’s haunted?” Phil asked. “Who’s the walking dead?”
“Flora Portland,” Helen said, rooting through a gray metal filing cabinet. “Do you know where we keep our standard contract form? It’s either under
C
for contract, or
S
for standard.”
“I thought we put it under
F
for form,” Phil said. “Is Flora Park named for Flora the ghost?”
“No, but she donated the library to the city. It was her home, and the library opened in the forties, after she died. Ah, there it
is,” Helen said, pulling out the contract form. “I have to take this back to the library before five o’clock.”
“Flora’s been haunting the library for nearly sixty years,” Phil said, “and they’re finally doing something about it?”
“No, she hasn’t. Flora’s been dead quiet,” Helen said.
Phil groaned.
“The haunting started a month ago, according to Alexa, the director, after the library got bad news. The floors in the old building can’t take the heavy load of books anymore. The repairs are so expensive, they’ll eat the trust fund Flora left behind and the library will have to close for a year during construction. The other choice is to build a new library. The library board president said Flora would turn over in her grave at that prospect.”
“Instead, she got up and started walking the halls?” Phil said. He wandered to the kitchen for another cup of coffee. His fourth, judging by the foam cups lined up next to his computer. “Coffee?” he asked Helen, holding up the pot.
“Water, please,” Helen said. Phil opened a bottle from the fridge and handed it to her.
“Some people believe Flora has suddenly risen from her grave,” she said, “but Alexa doesn’t. She’s paying me to find the so-called ghost.”
“What if you don’t find her?” Phil said.
“I will,” Helen said. “I bet I’ll track down Flora’s ghost in three weeks. She’d have felt at home in our office in the forties.”
The one-bedroom apartment had smooth art moderne curves, a speckled terrazzo floor and a slatted-glass jalousie door. The two private eyes used the former living room to meet with clients, and worked in the back room. Phil swore that Sam Spade would drink bourbon in an office like this, so he hung a brooding Bogart poster over his desk.
But the office was too cheerful for dated noir romanticism. Coronado Investigations was clearly a successful small business.
“I thought you’d be working on our other case today,” Helen said, sipping her water.
“I’m enjoying my last day of freedom before I go undercover,” he said. “We worked the Coakley case as much as we could together.”
“I thought that case would be easy,” Helen said. “A twenty-thousand-dollar necklace was stolen at Bree Coakley’s twenty-first birthday party, and a golf cart went missing. We’ve been interviewing the Coakley family and their daughters’ snotty friends for weeks, and not a single lead.”
“Most of the partygoers were too out of it to remember anything,” Phil said. “That’s why I have to go undercover as a gardener and get to know the Coakley staff. I’m not looking forward to yard work in the Florida heat.”
“Not even in ritzy Peerless Point?” Helen asked.
“Sun’s just as hot for the poor folks as the rich ones,” Phil said. “I’ve been updating my list of dicey pawnshops where the stolen ruby-and-diamond necklace could be sold and places that would sell that stolen golf cart.”
“You still think the cart has been stolen and the crimes are connected?” Helen asked. “I figured the cart was dumped in a canal after a drunken joy ride.”
“I think it was the getaway car, or cart,” he said. “Everyone gets around that neighborhood by golf cart. No one would notice. The driver could take it outside the gates and load it into a pickup.”
“Golf cart rustling,” Helen said. “What a ridiculous crime.”
“At least stealing a ruby necklace is ordinary enough,” he said.
“Why do you think the necklace was sold at a pawnshop instead of at a bar?” Helen asked.
“The family thinks the staff took it,” Phil said. “I’m not sure anyone working there has fencing contacts.”
“It’s too easy to blame the staff,” Helen said. “There were more than fifty people at Bree Coakley’s twenty-first birthday party,
not counting crashers. The thief could have been a guest or a family member.”
“I’m not ruling out the family, either,” Phil said. “But I need to spend time with the staff to learn about the home owners.”
“Mansion owners,” Helen said. “The Coakley home has eight bedrooms, six baths, two pools and a living room with a walk-in fireplace.”
“You don’t like them,” he said.
“No, I don’t,” Helen said. “Amis, the husband, is condescending. Ashler, the wife, is a snob. When I called her Ashley, she said that name was common and Ashler was a family name. Bree, the so-called victim, is snippy. I guess she’s named after the family cheese.”
Phil laughed.
“It’s not funny,” Helen said. “Bree’s little sister is another piece of work. Chloe is so jealous of Bree she can hardly see straight. I’ve had enough of them and their friends. They have this inborn sense of entitlement.”
“Their parents gave them that,” Phil said. “And their private schools. Don’t let your prejudices blind you to the facts.”
Helen shrugged. “I still don’t like the whole bunch,” she said. “I’d rather chase ghosts at the library.”
“You can,” Phil said, “but I need you to talk to Chloe Coakley again.”
“Again? Do I have to?” Helen knew she was whining, but she didn’t care.
“Yes,” he said. “You caught that Chloe was jealous of Bree. I didn’t see that. I’m an only child. You’re better with the family dynamics. If Chloe is really that jealous, maybe she took the necklace. If she didn’t, she was still at the party. She could have seen something useful. Just one more interview and then you can go ghost hunting.”
“Might as well get it over with,” Helen said. “I’ll call and see if she’s home now.”
She made the call and reported, “Ashler says I can see Chloe now. I’ll stop by the Coakley house before I go to the library.”
Phil propped his feet up on his dented desk, and his chair squeaked. “Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked.
“I believe there are things I don’t understand that seem supernatural,” Helen said. “So far, this haunting can be explained in earthbound terms: Flashlights and a hurricane kit have been lost or stolen. Food is missing from the staff break room.”
“Ghosts don’t eat,” Phil said.
“No, they don’t,” Helen said. “And that gorgeous full-length portrait of Flora Portland in the lobby helps suggestible types see Flora flitting through the halls. They say the ghost has brown hair and wears a long lavender dress.”
“Just like Flora in the picture,” Phil said.
“Right. Even though Flora didn’t move into that house until the 1920s, she’s ghosting in 1890s clothes,” Helen said.
“Did Flora die in the library?” Phil asked. “I mean, when it was her house.”
“Yes, but peacefully, when she was nearly ninety,” Helen said. “If anyplace should be haunted, it’s this office. A woman was murdered here. Have you ever felt her presence?”
“Never,” Phil said. “Margery let us rent this unit for our office for a dollar a year because our landlady didn’t want to say what happened to the last tenant.”
“Once people start saying a place is haunted,” Helen said, “even normal things look spooky.
“I think there’s a logical explanation for Flora’s haunting. My big problem will be finding the ghost before someone gets killed. Lisa, the jittery library board president, already hit a woman with a brass bookend.”
“A reader?” Phil asked.
“Yep. Knocked the poor patron silly. Lisa said she jumped out at her when the woman simply reached for a book. The woman
got six stitches. Now the library director’s worried someone will get killed.”
“I don’t envy you working with jumpy, nervous people,” Phil said.
“Don’t forget resentful,” Helen said. “Alexa says that Seraphina Ormond is upset with me because I’m the new library volunteer. Seraphina feels she was entitled to that job.”
“You stole a free job?” Phil said. “Now it’s definitely dangerous.”