Checked Out (4 page)

As she trotted toward her PT Cruiser, a gleaming white Beemer roared into the lot. A woman with long blond hair unfolded herself from the driver’s seat. She was a little taller than Helen, maybe six feet one, with square white teeth and a leathery tan. Her hot-pink-print Lilly Pulitzer top and white clam diggers looked odd on her lanky frame, but Helen knew they were the mark of old money.

“You’re Helen Hawthorne,” the woman said. It was an accusation.

“I am.”

“I’m Seraphina Ormond,” she said, her voice an upper-class bray. “You took my job. It’s mine. I’m entitled to it. A nobody like you won’t get away with that.”

“C
ontract signed, sealed and delivered?” Phil asked, as Helen entered her Coronado apartment. He was sipping a cold beer.

“With a threat,” Helen said, kicking off her heels. Her blouse felt sticky and her pencil skirt was rumpled, but she was too tired to change them. She snuggled next to Phil on her turquoise couch.

“At a library?” he asked, putting down the sweating bottle. His smile vanished. Helen’s partner was tense and alert. “Who threatened you?”

“Seraphina Ormond, the woman who wanted my volunteer job,” Helen said. “She confronted me in the library parking lot. She said a nobody like me wouldn’t get away with that.”

“Whoa! That’s extreme. Did she threaten you physically?”

“Her glare could have stripped off my skin, but she kept her fists balled up at her sides. She’s an inch or so taller than me—and very angry.”

“Maybe I should have a talk with Seraphina,” he said.

“No need,” Helen said. “I can take care of myself. She startled me, but she looked more silly than scary. I’ve never been
threatened before by anyone wearing a hot-pink top dotted with blue elephants.”

“Sounds like you need a drink,” Phil said. “How about a cold beer?”

“Ice water,” she said. “I want to try Markos’s mojitos at the sunset salute. Beer and rum don’t mix.”

Phil fixed Helen a frosty glass of water in her tiny kitchen, and handed it to her. “What else happened today?” he said.

She took a sip of cool water, then said, “Blair Hoagland, the chief Friend of the Library, wasn’t very friendly. I stepped on a lot of toes when I took this library job.”

“Do you want to tear up the contract?” he asked.

“Hell, no,” Helen said. “I’m not going to be intimidated by ladies who lunch. This is a good case. I’m sticking with it.”

“You’re tough,” he said, and kissed her.

“Damn right,” Helen said. Thumbs, their six-toed cat, jumped up on the couch next to her. The big-pawed cat had golden green eyes and white fur with patches of brown tabby. She scratched his thick fur and said, “I don’t get it, Phil. Library volunteer isn’t even a paid position. Why are those two so upset?”

“It’s about power, not money,” Phil said. “You entered their little world and walked off with a coveted prize—and your family isn’t even important.”

“They are to me,” she said.

Phil gave Helen a beery kiss and said, “Let me help you out of those sweaty clothes.”

“So we can get sweatier?” Helen said, and kissed him back.

“Exercise is a good tension reliever,” he said, kissing her neck.

“And I thought you were in my apartment because you wanted to see me,” she said.

“I do,” he said. “All of you. Bedroom’s this way.”

Forty minutes later, Helen was singing off-key in her shower. She and Phil had been married more than a year now, and they
still had honeymoon sex. Once he started working undercover as a gardener at the Coakley mansion in Peerless Point, there wouldn’t be time for love in the afternoon.

Helen and Phil had kept their separate one-bedroom apartments at the Coronado after their wedding. Helen’s terrazzo-floored apartment was furnished with the original midcentury modern furniture. She had learned to appreciate its clean, quirky style. Now she thought the bright orange and turquoise colors fit the tropical landscape. She knew decorators would sigh over her turquoise Barcalounger and lamps shaped like nuclear reactors.

In the phone-booth-sized bathroom, she blow-dried her shoulder-length hair, added a slash of lipstick and slipped into a cool white cotton top and shorts.

Phil whistled when she came out in a cloud of steam. “You look hot,” he said. “And that glow didn’t come from makeup.”

“Let’s go meet Markos and his mojitos,” Helen said.

“I’m sticking with beer,” Phil said. “And I’m not looking forward to gluten-free tacos and kale chips.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” she said.

Phil pulled on an imaginary cowboy hat and drawled, “Back at the ranch, little lady. I like my red meat.”

“Veggies won’t kill you,” Helen said, following him out the door.

“Beer is strictly vegetarian,” Phil said. He hoisted his bottle. Then the two private eyes headed toward the Coronado pool.

The palm trees rustled in the cooler evening air. The turquoise pool was surrounded by waterfalls of purple bougainvillea. Margery waved and raised a tall glass brimming with lime wedges and mint. She was stretched out in a chaise, her summer lavender dress the same shade as the slanting shadows.

“Our landlady has a mojito,” Helen said. “The sunset salute has started.”

Black-haired Markos, the new tenant, had set up a bar on an
umbrella table. He looked like a Chippendale with his bronze skin and tight white trunks.

Peggy, their elegant red-haired neighbor, was fanning herself with a handful of colorful cards, but Helen suspected Markos was causing the heat. Pete the Quaker parrot patrolled Peggy’s shoulder and said, “Woo-hoo!”

Peggy raised an icy mojito topped with lime and mint.

“I’m celebrating,” Peggy said. “I bought five scratch-off lottery tickets and just won a thousand dollars.”

“A thousand bucks,” Phil said. “Always wanted to live in a rich neighborhood.”

“Congratulations!” Helen said. “You’ve been buying tickets forever. Is this your first win?”

“At long last,” Peggy said. “Today, I’m basking in my success. Later, you’re going to help me figure out how to spend it.”

“We’ll need liquid inspiration,” Helen said. “Your mojitos look fabulous, Markos.”

“Taste them and find out,” he said, and handed her a glass. The cold burned Helen’s hand, and she inhaled the summery scent of lime and mint.

“Phil? One for you?” Markos asked.

“Thanks, but I’ll stick with beer,” Phil said.

“Then have a kale chip and garlic dip made with Greek yogurt,” Markos said. Helen scooped up one and popped it in her mouth, then tried the gluten-free taco.

“Yum,” she said. “These are good. Phil?”

Phil gingerly tasted the snacks and said, “Interesting.” Helen knew that was his polite way of saying he hated them. Markos smiled and showed his white teeth.

Helen sipped her mojito. The first taste was a cool explosion of sweet and citrus with the slightly bitter taste of rum. “Amazing,” she said. “Is this an authentic Cuban recipe?”

“No, I learned it in bartending school,” he said. “Most
bartenders hate making mojitos, but I love them. The key is muddling the lime, mint and sugar.”

“What’s muddling?” Peggy asked. She sounds a bit muddled herself, Helen thought.

“You crush the mint, lime and sugar in the bottom of the pitcher.” He held up a fat glass pitcher. “With this muddler.” Helen thought it looked like a small wooden baseball bat.

“It’s an essential bar tool,” Markos said. “I also have a plastic muddler, but the wooden one works better with mint.”

“Why are you crushing sugar?” Helen asked.

“I use raw sugar—turbinado. Sugar doesn’t dissolve well in cold drinks. You muddle the ingredients before you add the rum and club soda.”

“That’s a lot of work,” Phil said.

“It’s why bartenders hate to make mojitos, especially on a busy night.”

“Sure is good,” Peggy said, holding up her empty glass. “I’ll take another. I don’t have a long drive home.” She slurred her last words.

Markos took her glass and pulled another frosted one out of a foam cooler.

“You could have used the old glass,” Peggy said.

“Never!” Markos said, as he built another mojito and carried it to Peggy. He held out a piece of fresh kale.

“Can Pete have this?” he asked.

“He can, but Pete usually likes fattening food like pecans and potato chips. He’s on a diet. He’s never had kale before. Try it.”

“Kale is a nutritional powerhouse,” Markos said. “I love it. A cup of chopped kale only has thirty-three calories.”

Pete grabbed the green leaf and nibbled it. “Awk!” he said, and dropped it on the concrete.

“Pete!” Peggy said. “That’s not polite.” She’d finished her second mojito and tried to hide a yawn. “I think I’ve overcelebrated.
Markos, I enjoyed meeting you and your mojitos. See you all. Think about ways I can spend that thousand dollars—and nothing boring like paying bills.”

“Night!” Pete said, as Peggy walked carefully to her apartment.

“Another drink, Helen?” Markos asked. He shook the pitcher of mojitos, and the ice, limes and mint did a seductive little dance.

“I’ll take a rain check,” Helen said. “I have to work tomorrow.”

Despite the relaxing poolside drink, she felt a gnawing worry about going to the library tomorrow. Seraphina had been dead serious when she’d threatened Helen. She’d downplayed her fear to Phil.

What did Seraphina mean when she said Helen would pay for taking her job? Pay how? And would her friend Blair Hoagland help?

“I
have proof our ghost is alive,” Alexa said. “I found it this morning.”

The library director was waiting at the staff entrance when Helen arrived at ten o’clock.

“I’m glad you’re on time,” Alexa said. “The proof is in the women’s restroom. I’ve hung an out-of-order sign on the door so the evidence won’t be disturbed.”

Helen followed the director down the hall to the restroom, Alexa’s tailored coral suit a chic beacon.

“I came in early at seven thirty to get some work done,” Alexa said, “and found this.” She threw open the restroom door with a flourish. “There are four reasons why our ghost is a human. Do you see them?”

Helen wished Alexa wouldn’t test her this morning. She woke up headachey and cotton-mouthed. Last night, Markos’s mojitos had knocked her out after one round.

Helen smelled industrial disinfectant and saw a slightly dated public restroom.

“Jared Kobek, our janitor, told me he cleaned this restroom last night,” Alexa prompted. “Then he locked up and went home.”

“Did he set the library alarm?” Helen asked.

“We don’t have one. This is a small community with few young people. The police watch it on their patrol rounds.”

Helen studied the oval sinks and marble stalls and saw the first sign that something was off. “The toilet seat in the first stall is down, but the others are still up,” she said. “Someone used this restroom after the janitor cleaned it.”

“Good,” Alexa said. “There’s more.”

Helen checked the sinks. They were white and shining. “I see water spots on the mirror over the second sink,” she said.

“That’s two,” Alexa said. “I found two more.”

Helen touched the soap dispenser. “No liquid soap splashed onto the sink,” she said, “but there are lots of paper towels in the trash and some look damp.”

“Excellent,” Alexa said, a teacher ready to give her A-student a star. “One more.”

Helen felt like she was looking at a “Find What’s Out of Place” puzzle—and failing. She checked the toilets again, then the sink, the trash and the sealed window. Nothing stood out, except the room’s exceptional cleanliness.

“Your cleaner is thorough,” Helen said. “He gets in the corners.”

“Jared Kobek is new. The board hired him after our old janitor retired. He does good work, but he’s, well, bitter.”

“He’s mad at the library?” Helen asked. “Maybe he’s the ghost.”

“No, no, Jared is an excellent worker. But he expected to retire at seventy-two after Davis Kingsley died. I’m not spreading gossip. Jared tells everyone who’ll listen. He worked for the Kingsleys for fifty years, and he thought old Mr. Kingsley would remember him in his will. Jared got a bequest of five thousand dollars, and he
can’t make ends meet on Social Security. He has no love for the Kingsley family, but he’d never make trouble for the library.”

Jeez, Helen thought. You have to be connected to clean toilets in this town. No wonder Seraphina is so mad I took her volunteer job.

“I realized something else,” Helen said. “Our ghost is a she. She used the women’s restroom and put the seat down.”

“Good,” Alexa said. “Now we have a gender. I didn’t think of that.”

“She washed her hands and probably wiped the sink afterward,” Helen said.

“A logical deduction,” Alexa said.

Helen peered into the tall trash can. “But this can is half filled with paper towels. She didn’t need that many to dry her hands and clean the sink.”

“Also correct.”

“This is a real brain basher,” Helen said.

Or a rum deal, she thought. Thanks to that mojito, I’m not in mint condition this morning. Stop with the stupid puns, Sherlock. You have work to do.

She stared at the room again, looking for something else out of place. Toilets. Sinks. Floor. Trash can. Mirror. Window. Hand dryers.

“The dryer!” Helen said. “The one closest to the sink has its nozzle pointing up.”

“You got it!” Alexa said, and clapped her hands. “I knew you were good. The ghost took a sink shower and dried her hair. That’s why the nozzle was pointing up. I came into work earlier than usual and must have surprised her. She ran out of here before she could completely clean the restroom.”

Helen leaned against the sink, wishing she could collapse from relief.

“You did good,” Alexa said. “I already knew to check the hand
dryer. Homeless people using the facilities are a problem for many libraries. We librarians talk about what to do and how to help them. Fortunately, our library’s homeless man abides by the rules.”

“Looks like you have a homeless woman who doesn’t,” Helen said. “Where is she now?”

“Vanished,” Alexa said.

“Very ghostlike,” Helen said.

“Yes. I know ghosts don’t wash their hair, but after I discovered this, the silence was creepy. I didn’t hear footsteps or doors slamming. I did a quick search of the library, but didn’t find anyone. Paris, the library cat, followed me, but she didn’t act spooked.”

“You can’t go by a cat’s reaction,” Helen said. “You shouldn’t have searched the library alone. Next time, call the police. Your library has an intruder. She could still be here.”

“If I called the police, the ghost would be in the
Flora Park Gazette
again,” she said. “The paper’s already made jokes at the library’s expense.”

“You could have called me,” Helen said.

“And you’re trained to handle an attacker?” Alexa raised one eyebrow.

Helen remembered her conversation with Phil last night, when she’d downplayed Seraphina Ormond’s threat in the parking lot.

“At least there’d be two of us,” Helen said. “Are there any patrons you don’t recognize in the library now?”

“Let’s go see,” Alexa said. They walked through the popular library, the silvery lilac room with the lovely wicker wing chairs. Two gray-haired women were reading novels and the same white-haired man in the dark suit was reading the
New York Times
. Today he had the “Review of Books” section. The rest of the paper was carefully stacked on the table by his elbow.

“Did that man stay overnight?” Helen whispered.

“No, Mr. Ritter likes to savor the
Times
. He’ll read it all week.
Gladys usually referees at least one disagreement when someone tries to claim a section he’s already read. And I know both those women.”

Alexa smiled and waved at them.

Upstairs, a portly man in a tropical Tommy Bahama shirt was searching the DVDs. He grabbed six out of the
S
section and it collapsed into chaos.

Alexa sighed. “That’s Ed,” she said softly. “The bane of our shelvers. He always messes up the DVDs.”

In the computer room, two older men and a businesswoman were using the library computers.

“Let’s take the Beast down to the break room,” Alexa said. “Then I’ll show you the Kingsley donations.”

The old elevator shuddered and groaned on its slow journey to the first floor, but this time Helen ignored it. When the Beast crash-landed on the first floor, Helen followed Alexa into the high-ceilinged break room.

Alexa held up the coffeepot. “This coffee looks pretty fresh.”

“I take mine black,” Helen said.

Alexa poured them both a cup and they sat at the round table. “Most of our volunteers work about an hour a day,” Alexa said. “We don’t want to burn them out.”

“I’m not really a volunteer,” Helen said. “I need to be here most of the day. How about if I shelve books or do other library chores for an hour? Then I’ll hole up in the room with the Kingsley books.”

“That will work,” Alexa said. “I know we’ve barely started today, but will you take your lunch at eleven, after you see the Kingsley room? Gladys can talk to you about shelving, and then you can grab some lunch. I’ll watch the desk while she’s at lunch.”

“Sure,” Helen said. She felt better after the caffeine infusion. She drained her cup and washed it. Then the two women strolled down the hall to the Kingsley collection room.

“Brace yourself,” Alexa said, and unlocked the big old door. “It’s small.”

Small was a relative term. The room was bigger than Helen’s living room, but with a twelve-foot-high ceiling, it was almost as tall as it was wide. Dented beige metal bookshelves filled with dated bestsellers lined the walls, their dust jackets torn and faded.

“Nothing looks sadder than yesterday’s sensation,” Helen said.

She waded through a maze of dusty, taped cardboard boxes, all labeled
KINGSLEY
COLLECTION
.

“How many books are in this room?” she asked.

“Roughly a thousand, in three hundred boxes,” Alexa said. “As you can see, many of the boxes haven’t been opened yet.”

She patted a stack of books at least two feet long on a sturdy wooden table. “These have to be evaluated by experts. They could be valuable, depending on their condition.”

On top of the stack was a pair of white cotton gloves. “If you want to examine them, wear these.”

“Those are the biggest coffee table books I’ve ever seen,” Helen said. “That one on the bottom could be a coffee table if it had legs.”

“These are elephant folios,” Alexa said. “The biggest book on the bottom is a double elephant.

“Nowadays, most coffee table books are at least twelve inches high and fourteen inches wide, but there’s still a lot of variation. But publishers used to love these outsized books.”

She patted the top folio. “This book is a first-edition elephant folio of Raphael’s work called
Stanza della Segnatura First Part.
And the old brown beauty with the gold letters on the cover is an elephant folio of Goethe’s
Faust.
”

Helen felt lost in the skyscrapers of dusty book boxes. “I don’t know where to start,” she said, and sneezed.

“Tackle them one box at a time,” Alexa said. “I had the boxes numbered and stacked in numerical order, from one to three hundred. The first ones are over here by the door.”

“I’ll get started right after lunch,” she said.

As Alexa locked the heavy door with the skeleton key, Blair Hoagland came running down the hallway and planted herself in front of Alexa.

“That . . . that animal is in the popular library,” she said, her face pale with rage. Her thin body shook like a sapling in a storm.

Helen’s bleary brain searched for a title to go with the furious face. Blair Hoagland. The unhappy, powerful president of the Friends of the Library.

“You know I hate cats,” Blair said, and Helen swore the woman hissed. Her brown-striped pantsuit made her look rather like a scrawny tabby cat. Blair’s brown eyes were narrowed and her hands were clenched into fists. At least her claws weren’t out.

“And you know that our library cat, Paris, is an important part of our image,” Alexa said. “That calico is the spitting image of Flora Portland’s pet.”

Helen wondered if Alexa used that pun on purpose.

“Paris the cat is on our posters,” Alexa said, “and she goes to our French language programs. That’s why we call it ‘Paris in the Afternoon.’ Patrons love her.”

“People are allergic to that stupid cat,” Blair said.

“No one’s complained,” Alexa said. She seemed to grow calmer as Blair unraveled. Her dark brown hair was escaping its bun.

“She’s sneaky!” Blair screeched, and Helen winced. She was still feeling the effects of last night’s mojito. “She brushed up against my pantsuit. I’ve got cat hair on it.”

“That means she likes you,” Alexa said. “There’s a pet hair remover in the break room.”

“I don’t like cats,” Blair said again. “That animal is supposed to stay in the back rooms and staff areas.”

“Paris is working,” Alexa said. “She’s an important part of our ‘Go Green’ program, which you enthusiastically support.”

“I fail to see what a cat has to do with recycling,” Blair said.

“She’s our organic mouse catcher,” Alexa said. Helen thought she saw a trace of a triumphant smile. “No harmful pesticide chemicals, remember? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to return to briefing Ms. Hawthorne.”

“You’ve spent an hour giving that woman a tour of this library. If you’d let Seraphina volunteer, she would have started immediately. She was born in this town and grew up in this library. She knows Flora Park. Instead, you’ve wasted an hour.”

Finally, Blair looked Helen in the eye. “Exactly what are you doing next, Ms. Hawthorne?”

“Going to talk to someone pleasant,” Helen said. “Good afternoon.”