Daffodils

I was looking through a magazine, the laundry spinning away in the
dryer, a well read magazine. I'll thoroughly wash my hands at home.Kids were running wild. I drew my feet in, nothing worse than a toe stomping.

There was a picture in the magazine. A grassy hillside covered with a blanket of daffodils. I leaned back in the plastic, modern chair,
pulling my feet below me. I imagined laying upon the grass, feeling
the cool moistness, inhaling the scent of wildflowers, and hearing the bees buzzing about the flowers. And the yellow of the daffodils.

Yellow, refreshing, bright, and clean. Laying there I closed my eyes. I imagined myself melting into the hillside, being part of the grass, the flowers and even the bees.

"Ouch!" One of the kids ran by bouncing a toy off my knee.I rubbed at the point of injury. I'll survive. It was then that a bus pulled to a stop out on the street. I stood and walked to the doorway.

Wheel Draft Jan 16 18

The Wheel

John Coultas

CHAPTER I

Dinky's tavern was not one of those trendy Manhattan style watering holes. The ambiance was down on its luck: worn carpet, dated leatherette booths, and scarred walnut tables. Dark lighting helped to veil the bars shabbiness. However, Dinky's customers, blue collar guys and low end managers didn't mind. Dinks was broken-in, comfortable, a place for a gent to stretch out his legs, relax with the boys, and of course share a drink.
"Lenny my man, you are first up tonight, the usual?" Dinky called out. The proprietor was not a dinky man, his was one of those names they pinned on a big guy to further accentuate a massive frame. The man consumed most of the space behind the bar as well as a good portion of the oxygen in the room.
As Lenny wove through customers to his assigned booth, he nodded at a few faces he recognized, and grunted to several with whom he had a deeper social relationship. He eased himself into his booth, his corner, his center of the universe. Arms stretched across the top of the booth he was at peace with the world. "Ah." He sighed as Maddie, Dinky's hostess with the mostest delivered his drink. Her tray held high, she grasped the glass, and with a practiced swoop she bent low delivering the drink to her leering customer. Not one drop of liquid was lost in the presentation. She leaned close allowing gravity to provide her customer with a fleeting glimpse of her well rounded adornments, and deep cleavage. Lenny inhaled, and she smiled with satisfaction. Another good tip secured. She departed, commenting with a salacious grin, "Enjoy the Heine," And he did as she swung her way back to the bar.
Sipping at his drink Lenny felt the vibration of his cell phone, he pulled it from his inside pocket, checked the number, a client, not now he thought. "Lenny here," He answered. He listened, nodding in the affirmative. "No problemo, express mail it to you in the morning," He reassured his customer, emailed himself a note, and flipped the phone closed.
#



Lenny
Sanders
Frankie
Decker




Lenny arrives, has beer in hand at booth, phone call--talks about his car and plans for a trip up to Montreal to attend a jazz festival.

"Anyone want to go up to Montreal?" Lenny asked.
"Montreal." Decker said. "Even the penguins freeze up there this time of year."
Sanders sat up straight and leaned forward. "Decker, penguins live at Antarctica, not in North America."
Decker shook his head. "Sanders, it's an expression. I think we all know where penguins live. By the way, I'm sure they have penguins in Canadian zoos."
Sanders began to open his mouth. "Don't Sanders, let's not muddy the evening with arguments." Decker said.
The odd man out in the group, Sanders was never accepted as a full fledged member of the gang. Yeah, he came from the old neighborhood, but he never fit in. Always having to be be right and precise was something that wore on the nerves of his friends.
Lenny glanced at Sanders. "No, I'm not crazy. The concert is in June. We could make a road trip of it, in my car."
"All of us?" Decker asked. Everyone looked to Sanders.
"Come on guys. We always do things together." Sanders lamented.
"Yeah." The others said with little conviction.




Decker turned to Frankie. "Keeping those racing engines in tip-top shape?" Decker asked. Frankie was the mechanic. With the exception of Sanders they had grownup fixing bikes, then moving on to motorcycle and car engines. Frankie was the one with dirt and grease embedded in his hands.
"Yeah. The shop can't keep up with the demands, that's what happens when you know what you're doing." Frankie said with pride.
"How about that toy of yours?"
Frankie smiled. It was more than a toy. He was certain that his adaptation could be a real winner. "I've tested several prototypes, none of them have exploded, and each phase seems to give added performance." Decker had followed Frankie's invention over the years. They both saw the financial promise the new system would yield. It all hinged on a venture capital.
Decker had several accounting clients that might have the money and interest for Frankie's project. "I'll come by your shop and have a look at the changes you've made. Then we need to do some serious negotiations with potential investors."
"Wow, Deck, I can't tell you how much this means to me."
"Don't start counting the bucks yet. This will be a long process." Decker gave Frankie's shoulder a light punch. "Another brew?"



***
"So Lenny how is the market?" Sanders asked.
"You know better than that." Lenny looked around the crowded bar. "I get caught talking about anything associated with my work, no matter how distant, I can get myself fired or worse end up in prison. I sneeze and the SEC could be all over me."
Sanders snorted a laugh. "Man, you're not that important." Lenny gave him a cold stare.


"Frankie, I'm going to get my car tuned up. I swear with all this rain we've been having my spark plugs are loaded up with moisture." Lenny said.
Frankie nodded. "Yeah, you might be getting vapor in through the plugs, collects on the carbon and you misfire. Now if you had fuel injection and electronic ignition you wouldn't have that kind of problem."
Lenny rubbed his hand over his heart. "Frankie, you are wounding me. I love my car just the way she is. She's a classic."
"She's an antique Lenny, and parts are starting to be a real problem for her." Frankie reminded, a painful truth for the owner of a sixty year old car.
Lenny rubbed at his chin. "Hmm, how about those 3D printers. I hear they can print out rare parts."
Frankie laughed. "Can't you just imagine one of those printers spitting out a drive shaft." Frankie wiped at the tears forming in his eyes. Lenny didn't appreciate the humor or the thought of giving up his car for the lack of replacement parts.
"You're brutal Frank."


"So, Sanders, are you keeping the wheels of the city moving?" Lenny enjoyed digging at Sanders, a middle manager, who worked in the lower reaches of municipal services, where he could do the least damage.
Sanders straightened. "I have designed a new form for our department. It accounts for each minute my employees spend working with a client. It is on the  computer, so I can see who is working and who is loafing." He smirked. "We have a lot of loafers that need to be weeded out." Firing or laying off employees always inspired Sanders.






Decker arrives


Sanders arrives (no major conflicts, but whiney)


Frankie and Decker talk invention and financing




#
"Still on the clock," Decker, one of the fellas from the hood taunted as he removed his overcoat and slipped into the booth across from Lenny.
"No!" Lenny insisted, "Well, I hope that's it for the night. Decker scanned the room, "Is it just us?"
"So far," Lenny said. "Right back, going to the john." Maddie placed Decker's order in front of him, a cold beer and a frosted glass. "Want I should open it Deck," She asked. She knew the answer, Decker was a connoisseur. Only he poured his beer. It was a ritual. No one interfered.
"Thanks Maddie, but I got it," He smiled. As she sauntered away he relaxed, the anticipation was half the joy. Decker twisted off the cap, listened for the hiss of carbonation, pulled the glass close and poured, not straight down; he angled the glass creating a gentle slope, the liquid tumbled, and rolled down without effort. As the glass filled he gently moved it upright, allowing the brew to build a head, but not too thick, just enough to trap the carbonation.
He leaned back, and studied his drink. He held the glass, testing the chill. He observed bubbles effervescing up through the rich amber fluid. It was a dance, a beautiful rhythmic dance. He inhaled the mild bouquet. And now the climax, the fulfillment, the...
"Decker!" A high pitched whine and a nudge to the shoulder, jarring the hand, jerking the glass and sloshing the head and a good part of the beer onto Decker's manicured mustache, and down his chin.  He choked, grasped the glass with both hands and lowered it to the table. His eyes rose to glare at Sanders who was cringing under the unwanted attention. White froth decorated  Decker's facial adornment.
"Man, what's the matter, don't have a good word for a friend." Sanders inquired. He had difficulty understanding Decker, they were guys from the old neighborhood, looking to have some fun is all. A pat on the back and this guy goes all ballistic. Sanders sat across from Decker who began patting beer off his face with his handkerchief. Sanders grabbed a coaster, and began tapping it on the table, scanning the room for a friendly face.
"Do you have to do that?" Decker nodded to the coaster. He could see that he had put Sanders into one of his funks, a funk that only time, a long period of time at that would heal.
Maddie reappeared, "Sanders, didn't see you sneak in, usual?" She asked. Sanders gave a sullen nod.
Lenny returned, and with a practiced move he gave the hostess a friendly rub on the backside, and slipped into the banquette. Maddie moved in closer to Lenny, she massaging his shoulder. Lenny wrapped his arm around her waist, resting his hand on her hip. "How about another Heineken for me,and Decker seems to have spilled his over ther, give Deck a refill on me."
"Thanks Lenny. And Maddie could I get a cleanup here." He opened his hands above the beer spill, and shot a look at Sanders.
She rubbed her hip into Lenny as she left. "You boys will be here when I get back?"
"I'm not going anywhere, you going anywhere Sanders?" Sanders frowned back at Lenny. "Eh! There's Frankie." Lenny pointed with his chin to a young fellow approaching, wearing coveralls and a Yankee's baseball cap.















The guys had their booth at Dinky's, as they did at the Midtown Diner.  By eliminating the imponderable choices life throws at a person our group of guys simplified life, making it manageable.
The waitress tossed a menu in front of a comatose Decker.  He handed it back to her.  "Morning Gladys, I'll have the usual."
Gladys pulled her pencil out of her stiffly permed hair, about where her right ear would be. "Two eggs over, rasher of bacon, white toast, and black coffee." She gave him her look.  "From the looks of your eyes I better bring the coffee pronto." As she walked away she absentmindedly nodded to Frankie, "Scrambled, wheat, and O.J." Predictability simplified life as well as the lives of those many people who served their needs.  They always sat in the same section at Yankee stadium, pizza from Mike's Pizza, Chinese from Mr. Lee's.  All the numbers were memorized.  It made for a compact, predictable life.
"Decker you look like hell." Frankie slid in next to his friend.
"Thanks that's 'bout what Gladys was saying." He rubbed his face.  "Ouch, even my eyeballs ache."
"How's the Mrs." Frankie looked at the waitress taking the order in the next booth. She was a girl Frankie hadn't seen before. The diner seemed to avoid young women with looks.
Decker followed his eyes.  "Sharry's good, wasn't home by the time I fell asleep." Turning back to Frankie.  "Cute."
"She must be new." Frankie didn't do a good job of covering his stare.  Yeah, cute."  It was a mumble to himself.
The waitress approached them.  "You gentleman don't drink coffee?"
They looked at each other.  "We're not gentlemen, were a couple of guys." Decker teased.
"Okay guys, you bothering the help." Gladys returned with two cups of coffee.  "This is Sadie, she does the afternoon and evening shift, your not going to run her off like the last one."
"Are you talking about Margo, who was eighty-five, came when the foundation was laid in the 1920's."
"She would have stayed longer if you hadn't made fun of her being deaf." Gladys defended her former co-worker.
Frankie smiled at the newcomer.  "Where you from Sadie, Gladys has never called us gentlemen."
"And I never will!" Gladys insisted. She nodded to the counter, "Your order's up Sadie. I'll take care of these numbskulls."
"Luziana." Sadie said."I'm from Luziana."  She looked at her order pad, and laid a, "Good meet'n y'all," on them.  Frankie watched her walk away.
"Like I said, be nice to her she's a sweet kid." Gladys gave the boys her best motherly frown.
"I'll be...we'll be nice, won't we Decker." Frankie promised.
"I'm an old married man." Decker smiled at Gladys.  "She's safe around me."


"I don't get it. How does Lenny have all that stuff, the car, the garage, he has some great furniture in his apartment; all that on a printers assistant's income." Deck wondered as he took another shooter.
"I don't know, he invest in the stock market, we've all heard him talking about the market." Frankie suggested with no conviction.
"The market has been down for a good long time." Decker shook his head. "I've asked if he wanted me to do his taxes, he always says he does them himself, so little income, no problem. He worries me. Maybe he's not being out front with us. He doesn't want the IRS chasing after him."
"Hey guys, whatís going down."
"Not much talking about the Yankees, Boston comin' into town, should be a good series." Deck lied.
Lenny looked at his friends sensing that this was a cover.


"God, what's with that Sanders? He's so damn argumentative. He's gotta disagree with every thing you say. I say white, he's gotta say black, just to be disagreeable. And he's a supervisor, some department with the city. Can't imagine how painful that must be...working for a putz like him. Damn pain in the fucking ass."

"Shh!" Frankie pointed out Sadie, "She's new, watch your mouth."

"God, now your doing it." Lenny moaned and leaned back.

"Come on man, she's young, and he's nice..that's all I'm sayin'" His eyes darting between his old friend and his new interest.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Lenny shook his head at his love starved friend.


















CHAPTER III

DECKERS OFFICE
Decker, Angie talk office, Sharry, call from Sharry Angie was at his desk finishing a phone conversation. "I have to meet a client over lunch."
He paused.  "You know what I mean, they are expecting us."
Another pause.  "I'm looking forward to an informative discussion, with long term prospects."
As he put down the phone his secretary entered.  "Mr. Fiorello I have finished those reports they are printing and collating now, anything else, I have a lunch date." Francine advised from the doorway.
"Close up the office, I'm meeting a prospective client for lunch."  Francine gave Angie a knowing smirk, which he ignored.  "Is Deck in his office?"
Francine was slipping her arm into her overcoat.  He will be back at Two, he said something about meeting with Blankenship."















CHAPTER IV

MACHINE SHOP
Frankie at work, Deck discusses invention and business plan "Here it is Deck." Frankie whipped a tarp off a large piece of machinery.  He stood back admiring his achievement.  "Whadda you think?"
"Yeah, well it looks like a hunk of metal to me.  I know my cycle, I can work on it, I've rebuilt a couple engines, my bike I know, this thing is way beyond me.  I've heard you explain it, but to sell it to a venture group they need a lot more."
"Like what, a lot more?"
"Like I was telling you last night you need a business plan, I can help you, no one will talk to you without one.  And then they need to know that it works, an actual production model."
"I need money to do that, money I just don't have."
Decker rubbed at his chin.  "I've loaned you all that I can.  How about Lenny, Mr. Wall Street?"
"We've talked.  He seems to spend it faster than he earns it." Frankie said.  Decker nodded his understanding.
"Okay, I'll work with you on the plan, all the paperwork involved there, Maybe I can come up with a venturesome,  venture capitalist that will forgive your empty pockets."
"Deck, I hate to push the boundaries of our friendship this way."
"Forget it man, this is business, not friendship." Deck slapped Frankie on the shoulder.  "Gotta go, have a meeting with Angie."
WORK LENNY INTO THE DINER SCENE, HAVE HIM CHEWING ON A TOOTH PICK AS HE LEAVES.















CHAPTER V

SANDERS OFFICE
Sanders the officious city clerk Sanders is the evil little passive aggressive bureaucrat, he takes his frustrations out on the public and co-workers Sanders looked up at the clock, 12:00 noon, he opened the brief case on his desk, he extracted a sandwich wrapped in a plastic baggie, a banana and a thermos.  He laid out a napkin in the middle, smoothing it flat.  He placed the sandwich in the center and the banana, directly above, and on the edge.  He then removed the cup from the top of the thermos, and poured chicken noodle soup into the cup.  The soup was placed six inches to the right side of the sandwich.  He then removed the sandwich from the baggie, he leafed through the bread lettuce, meat, and cheese, sniffing, shaking his head and rolling his eyes as he went.  Inspection over, sorted back into place the sandwich was raised, mouth open, the phone rang.  Sandwich frozen in space and time, he looked at the phone.  It rang again, and again, and again.  He put down the sandwich with a "Rumff," opened the door to see his two clerks serving long rows of clients at their service windows.  Both were surrounded by stacks of paper and faced angry clients.  Sanders shouted, can't someone answer that phone.
Both clerks looked to Sanders, shrugged and went back to their clients.  He returned to his desk picking up the sandwich, looking at it, putting it down, removing the handset from the phone and going back to his lunch.

















  "Frankie, what are you doing here. You never come in for lunch." Gladys gave him her knowing smile. He looked around the diner, no Sadie, his heart dropped. With a worried look he asked Gladys, "Is she here?"
Gladys' face took on a vague look, "Who? What she? Frankie, they don't let me bring my crystal ball to work." She chuckled. "Okay kid, since you are a valued customer...Sadie was asking about you...I didn't say anything good. And, like I said this morning, she's a good kid, I don't want anyone taking advantage of her. She's on a break. Be out in a minute." The waitress waved Frankie to a stool at the counter.
"I appreciate that." He said as Gladys scurried off to another customer. How does she do that, puncture your balloon and boost your ego at the same time. Frankie wandered down to the end of the counter sitting on the swivel stool, thinking about Sadie. He looked at his hands on the counter, then slipped them into his jacket pockets. Did she notice his hands this morning, lot'a girls see his hands, that's the end, no more dates.
Frankie couldn't take his eyes off of the clock, anticipating her arrival and fearing rejection. Maybe this is a bad idea, he thought. He worried, a nice girl like Sadie surely had men asking for dates. Guys with good jobs and a solid future. He saw Gladys go back to the kitchen. "Frankie, you're stupid," He muttered and spun on the stool and began to step away from the counter.
"Where you going Frankie?" He heard Sadie's Cajun drawl.
"No where." He turned to face her. Wow. She's even more beautiful than she was this morning. And she remembered my name. "Just stretching my legs." He felt guilty lying to her. Sitting he took a menu, his eyes moving from the cafe's offerings to her face and back. He didn't want to stare, but he did.
"Take your time, I have another customer. You won't go away?" Sadie asked.
Frankie watched as she walked to a customer at the middle of the counter. Nice. He went back to the menu that he knew from front to back after years of visits with the guys. His mind kept returning to her face, pixie was the word he couldn't get out of his head. Dark, short cropped hair, deep brown eyes and a petite body. He chuckled, what woman would want to be told a guy thought she looked like a pixie, good way to end a potential relationship. He let his imagination go loose, seeing visions of her flitting through a starlit sky, scattering silverish dust upon the unsuspecting. Keep it to yourself Frankie.
Sadie was back, "What will it be Frankie?" Wow! He loved the sound of his name, the way she said it.
Tipping the carafe she freshened his coffee.
"Hmm." He looked up at those brown eyes. He didn't want to order, he wanted her to be there all day long. I have to let her go, "Tuna melt and fries." He smiled and handed her the menu. Then he heard a voice, his voice and he broke into a sweat, "Are you busy tonight, could I see you?" He immediately began tearing into himself. Can I see you, what a dumb line. Frankie she has better things to do. A girl that looks like Sadie is sure to be busy.
"Frankie, that sounds nice. I'm off at eight, is that okay with you? Meet me right here?"















Lenny Sweating Investigation

Print Shop the heat is on Lenny chewed on his tooth pick as he studied the documents spewing from his printer. Over the years he had trained his eyes to find irregularities, improper formats or a printer just going crazy. He had a reputation, if there was a misprint, something not lined up just so, Lenny was the guy that would find it. He had the printerís eye. It was an okay job, it paid for his car, his 1957 Silver Hawk, a collectorís car. He loved the lines, the turn signals mounted on the fenders, the funky fins that tweaked outwards. It was like him, just a little out of fashion, different but eye catching.
"Howís it going Len, get it done on schedule?" Simmons, Lennyís supervisor came up from behind with the question. Simmons was a nervous man, the print schedules ran his life. Not taking his eyes off the job Lenny nodded in the affirmative.
"Running smoothly, have it collated, stacked, and shipped by 2:00," Lenny assured. Simmons grunted an acknowledgement and walked across the plant floor.
Lenny glanced back and forth between his job and Simmons progress across the floor to his office. Providing a service to Wall Street firms could make a job high stress. Those people felt of themselves as gods. All request were treated with top priority, get it in, get it out and by god donít make any mistakes.
As Simmonsí office door closed Lenny whipped a sheet from the stack forming in front of him, he scanned the printout, no errors, glanced around the room, everyone was busy, he slipped the sheet into a binder below his workstation.
The last few prints for his run were printing out, he looked around for Juan, his man from shipping. "Lenny you looking for me?" Juan asked. The guy always startled Lenny, he just appeared when a job needed to be moved to shipping. The shipper came in close to Lenny, "You hear anything?" "What am I going to be hearing, Iím over here all day on my printer, you know me Juan, donít talk to no one," Lenny like to stay away from all the gossip, whoís sleeping with Darlene in the office, who is Simmons going to fire next, no stay out of the line of fire, do your job, that was his philosophy.  He had a nice thing going, not be be screwed-up.
Juan was watching Simmons door, "The boss is pissed," Juan informed. Lenny could only think that was the normal for Simmons, so whatís the deal. Juan slipped a pallet jack under Lennyís job, lifted it off the floor, moved in close again, Lenny had better things to do he was thinking, get it over with Juan, "Couple guys were talking to old man Simmons, I was talking to Darlene on a break, god that blouse she was wearing, so thin you could see everything sheís got, hot, damn if she aint hot." Juan went back to pumping the lift just a bit higher. All he got from Lenny was a look of irritation.
That was it two guys talking to Simmons, any most of the guys in the plant had seen a lot more of Darlene than her peek-a-boo blouses. Your wasting my time Juan, go away. Wishing Juan away had no effect, he just smiled, "Yeah, two suits from the SEC, no way I want the man breathing down my neck." He put his thick shoulders into the work and began pushing the load to shipping.  Lenny was staring at the floor, a chill came over him, like he was outside with out a coat, he felt as though I couldnít move.  He knew what he had to do.
















Angie hooking up with Sharry

THE PARTNERs SHARES MORE THAN THE OFFICE "Sharry we cant keep meeting like this, I feel so cheap." Angie teased,  massaged the her shoulders through the silk blouse.
"Angie you are cheap alright." She pushed at him.  He grabbed her and wrestled her onto the bed.  "We need to tell him, I want out.  I want to screw you without looking over my shoulder.
Angie nuzzled her hair, he kissed her ear and worked his way south, slipping down her panties to delve deep inside.  Sharry arched her back, rolling and writhing, he reached up to kneed at her breast.
Minutes later Angie laid exhausted on the bed.  Sharry buttoned her Blouse.  "I will tell him tonight.  I cant go on like this, once or twice a week.  I want you twenty-four-seven."
"Not tonight, client in Boston needs to see him." Angie reached for his watch.  "I better go, we were going to discuss the approach this afternoon."
"Are you telling me we could have had a night together instead of this cheap, quickie."
He stood to nosh on her neck and throat.  "If you two split it will affect the partnership, he won't be happy with us hooking-up on the side." She spun away from him.
"You're not backing out on me.  We've been planning this for months.  It's to close, too long.
"Sharry, you know I'm crazy about you...tonight, while he's in Boston, we'll figure it out...seven, I can be there at seven." He held her shoulders, they kissed.
THERE IS A PROBLEM WITH THE BOSTON THING, NEED TO GET THE CHRONOLOGY RIGHT
















The Boss is Unhappy

In a pool of light stubby fingers turned pages of a ledger, columns were studied, and occasional notations were made in the margin. The fingers were tipped with manicured nails, an incongruity on sausage stubs. A balding head bowed into the light, glasses adjusted, more notes were made, along with profane comments, and grunts of disgust.
Off in the dark a phone rang, the head continued its focus on page after page of numbers. A second and a third time the phone sounded. The head tilted in the direction of the annoyance, the profile was that of gross features, a bulbous nose and thick gnarled lips. ìAin you gonna get that Jerry?î The disembodied head demanded.
ìOh, sure Boss,î Came the reply from Jerry. ìYeah, dis is Jerry.î Jerry listened.
ìYeah, da Boss is hereÖBoss, itís fur yuids,î Jerry handed the heavy, black bakelite handset into the ring of light.
The Bosses gross features, twisted, ìJerry, how many times I gotíta tell ya ta get a name, whodís it?î ìOh, yeah itís da kid at the printer place.î ìGimme da phone, putz!î The Boss spat out. ìYeah kid wha ya wan?î The Bosses stooped head nodded as he listened to Lenny. He never used names on the phone, used the old fashioned analog handset to avoid digital listening techniques. He felt this would add a bit of a road bump to the Feds had they wanted to listen in.
ìYeah kid, ya did good, no problem.î He looked into the dark where his underling stood guard, ìJerry!î ìYeah Boss.î Jerry responded.
ìGet me da  Weasel, I need him ta take care aí the kid for me.î















The Flip of a Coin


DECKER'S OFFICE
Flipping the coin ìFrancine said you had an update,î Angie stepped into the office.  Decker looked up at his partner, he was adjusting himself inside his clothing, he was a bit rumpled.
ìYeah, Blankenship phoned, he needs to see one of us "Francine has ordered the tickets.  Flight goes out at five-thirty.  Do you think you can make it."
"Hold on partner, I have a surprise planned for Sharry.  We haven't had much time together, and she is always on me about not being spontaneous.  Tonight I am Mr. Spontaneous, everything is going to be out of the ordinary for the both of us."
"Blankenship is a special client, needs to be handled with kid gloves, I just feel like he is your man, the kind of guy you are able to finesse." Beads of sweat were forming on Angie's forehead.  He pulled at his tie.  "Hot in here."
Decker crossed his arms and shook his head.  "I have a great evening planned, working on it for a couple weeks." He stared down Angie, who began jiggling the coins in his pocket, and then a smile formed on his mouth.
"I'll flip you for it."
"Be a lot easier if you took the flight." Decker rubbed his temples feeling a stress headache coming on.
"I'll even let you call it."
"Thanks, I think.  Okay flip it." Decker said.  The quarter went into the air.  "Tails." He called out, the coin bounced on the carpet, tails it was.
Angie again pulled at his tie.  Decker gave him a manly slap to the shoulder.  "Have a good trip, Blankenship will be no problem, you can schmooze him."
As Decker left the conference room Angie was still looking down at the coin.  "He mumbled to himself, "He always calls heads." He retrieved the quarter from the floor, flipping it back and forth, tails on both sides.
















 SANDERS ALONE AT THE TAVERN

The tavern was empty save the presence of Dinky and Sanders.  The proprietor, towel over his shoulder, elbows on the bar was attempting the posture of the listener.  The customer sat opposite the barkeep, nursing a Seven and Seven, lamenting the life of the single man, living at home.
"My supervisor at the department, Momma, they just wont let me be...you know, make decisions.  They are after me all the time.  Do this, do that.  Can't they just leave me alone let me do my job."
"And Momma is always after me about getting a wife.  Tonight she invited Mona over, you remember me mentioning my cousin Mona, the one I took to her prom and mine.  She wants me to marry my cousin.  Mona the writer, went to NYU, writes stories for romance magazines.  Goes to NYU for four years and the best she can do..."
Dinky would nod and emit a knowing grunt as the comments required.  Sanders went on.  "Mona's been after me for years, she's ok, she just isn't...you know, hot.  Not the girl you dream about, the one you want to go home to at the end of the day, rip her clothes off and make love to.  You know me Dinky, the way I am...respect women.  I keep my hands of Mandie, not like Lenny.  But it would be nice to have a hot wife " Sanders stopped to catch his breath, toying with his drink.  Dinky leaned back, looked down the bar and around the room, slapping his bar towel against the counter.
Back to Sanders he asked.  "Need a refill there." He knew the answer, the one the kid always used.  Sanders looked at the half filled glass.
"Better not, Momma will know if I've had too much, better not."
Dinky smiled.  "Gotta go in back a minute, verify a delivery I got this afternoon." He lied.

















The Mob gets to Lenny

"Would you look at that sky up there, black as your fucking lungs.  Get rid of that god damn cigarette.  Kill yourself, I'm okay with that, but no need to kill me too." He glanced at the sky through the foggy window.  "Gonna snow, gonna snow two feet deep they says.  Where's that fool.  Pissed off the boss."
Gus continued sucking on the stub of his cigarette, ignoring the Weasels complaints.  "How's about I go get us coffee, coffee would be good, hot."
"Yeah, you go get coffee the kid shows up and the plan is screwed.  You stay here!  We freeze together." The Weasel studied his watch.  "Boss says bout this time he'll show.  We wait."
Gus flipped his stub out the crack in the window just as Lenny pulled his Silverhawk to the curb.  The Weasel glared at his partner shaking his head.  "Coffee would have screwed the works for sure.  I'll meet you at the wharf." He looked to his watch again.  "Bout fifteen after." Gus ignored the watch thing.  I'll see ya' when I see ya', he thought to himself.
The Weasel slipped his hand into his overcoat pocket, feeling the weight of the Beretta in his hand as he stepped from car to sidewalk, moving his finger to the trigger as he stepped to the drivers side.  The door began to open Weasel stepped into the gap between the target and the car door.  "Lenny how ya doin'" He greeted in a grandfatherly tone." Lenny looked up, confused, surprised.
"Wha..."
The gun came out of the overcoat, pointed at Lenny, "Slide over kid." He didn't like it when they called him kid.  But with the money and now this gun, and the silencer what was he going to say.  He slid to the passenger side.  The Weasel checked for the key in the ignition, no key.  "Gimme the key kid." Kid again.  He handed the key to the good ol'e boy, whatever they are called.
"Don't hurt the car." Lenny pleaded.
The weasel slipped the key into the ignition, one hand on the steering wheel, looked around admiring the craftsmanship of the vintage car, and the pains of restoration.  "Not bad." He remarked with a smile as his gun popped-out several rounds into Lenny.  Slipping the gun back into his pocket he leaned over to straighten the body against the window.  He then sat back, adjusted the mirror and turned the key.  Nothing.  He checked the gears, tried again.  Nothing.  He looked back to see if Gus had left.  Of course Gus had left that was the plan.  Coffee, should have let that dumb bastard get his coffee.
"Kill switch, the kids got some kind of kill switch here." He began talking to himself.  "Don't panic, so you got a stiff here and a car that won't move." The weasel began a survey of the dash, ran his hands underneath, pulling at wires, something unusual, out of the ordinary, he puled down the visor, under the seat, nothing again.  He glared at Lenny, what remained of Lenny.  "Dumb bastard." He slammed the flat of his hand into the steering wheel.  He got out, locked the door and walked away.  The windows had fogged from the inside, only a shadowy silhouette could be seen of the former owner from outside.


















DECKER COMES HOME TO SURPRISE SHARRY

Decker enters his apartment, in the distance he can hear the sound from the television in the den.
Arms out Decker shouts "Surprise."  Sharry gasps, inhaling air, her head shoots around to see her husband.  She is in a slinky negligee.
"Boston, you were going to Boston for business." She was insistent.  There was a bottle of champagne chilling, Hors†d'úuvres.  He could smell something appetizing in the oven.  They stared at one another both confused.
"Angie took the trip, I was going to surprise you, I can see that I have."
"Angie went to Boston...Angie went...?" Her voice trailed off, she fell back in the couch. She turned back to stare at the grainy images on the television screen, a remote feed of snow, flashing lights and emergency vehicles. She felt a huge knot forming in her chest, strangling her voice and lungs, she gasped, "Flight 739?"
"Yeah, 739." Decker looked at the TV for the first time, a news story, or a breaking bulletin.  A banner at the bottom announced, Crash of Flight 739, JFK to Logan.
Sharry was in denial, she couldnít believe what she was seeing, ìAngie's okay, he's not hurt, maybe he missed the flight.  Responding to instinct, Decker pulled his cell from his pocket, punched Angieís number, he listened to the ring then the operator indicating the number was out of service. He slipped it back in his pocket.
He sat next to his wife, put his hand on hers, she pulled away, a vacant look on her face, she chewed on a nail. ìIt canít be,î She looked at her husband, recognizing for the first time, ìWhy wasnít it you, you were the oneÖyouíre the one should have died. Angie's been screwing me for months, why did it have to be Angie, why wasn't it you." She beet her fists on Deckers chest.  He couldn't believe what he was hearing, the lies, the cheating, both of them smiling, pleasant but screwing behind his back.  It wasn't the sex he was angry about it was the facades they created. The fake loyalty.
"He blew up with everyone else, no survivors."
He had to go to the airport, arrangements needed to be made.  Angie had no family, they had been like brothers or so he thought.  "Get dressed we need to go to JFK."
I can't I can't go out not the way I feel.
He was your lover, the least you could do You were screwing Angie and now you want me to do this alone You never have done much for me Decker, you can do this He pulled out his cell phone as he walked to the door, He looked back at Sharry hew could no keep the contempt from his face. "I gotta do this."
As Decker closed the door Sharry shouted at him. "God damn bastard, you should'a died, not Angie." Her head fell upon her crossed arms, she returned to her deep sobs.















Life's a Lottery

Guido Lazzari was ringing up a sale at his old fahion cash register, brass, huge keys and lots of noise as the drawer banged open. "Mrs. Cecchi, will that be all tonight?" He asked as he bagged the grey haired woman's purchases.
Mrs. Cecchi looked around, rubbing her hands at her sides.  "Sure Guido, don't think I forgot nothing."
"How about a lotto ticket? Big drawing tonight, and I got the winner in her, I can just feel it." He encouraged with a smile.
"You know me Guido, never buy those things, waste of money."  She pulled the bags forward, squeezing them in her ample arms.  "Waste of money Guido, you know me, money comes too hard to waste on no lotto."
The door banged shut as Mrs. Cecchi went out into the cold night.  A young fellow in grease stained coveralls placed a bottle on the counter. "Ciggies Guido." He requested.
Guido turned and pulled a pack form a carton, slapping it on the counter. "Marlboro Red, and a bottle of Old Grand-Dad, how ya doing Sal?" Guido asked.
"I'm ok. Give me five lottos, let the machine pick the numbers."  Sal said. Guido went about ringing up his sale and tending to the lotto.
"Tonights the night Sal." Sal was a nervous little guy, bouncing from foot to foot. Guido smiled as he handed the ticket to his customer.
Sal shrugged. "With you Guido, every night's the night."
The wind pushed a frail Joe Ferrara through the door, pellets of snow followed after. "Night Sal." Guido nodded, and stepped back as Ferrara approached the counter. Joe and Guido had this thing, neither could stomach the other, Ferrara only customed the store because it was close. Joe also got a level of satisfaction knowing he irritated the store owner. He slammed a stack of bills on the counter.
"Count it Guido, two hundred and fifty dollars." Ferrara smirked.
"And what you want me to do with your two hundred and fifty dollars Mr. Ferrara?" It was always Mr. Ferrara, Guido would play nice but feeling something far different.
"Lotto tickets, I want you to start printing out lotto tickets."  Ferrara turned to view the old Rheingold clock. "Ainít got much time Guido." He chuckled.
"Your right Mr. Ferrara, not much time I'll print 'em out ten to a slip."
"No you won't Guido, each one separate ticket, you know how I do it." Ferrara protested. He made another pass at the clock.  "Hurry it up Guido, shuts down in twenty-five minutes."
Guido slumped. "Sure Mr. Ferrara two hundred and fifty individual tickets." As he turned to his lotto machine he exhaled.  "Ass hole."
"What's that Guido, what you say. I can go down the street, I can go some place else ya know."
"I didn't say nothing Mr. Ferrara, punch up your tickets just fine. Jus the way you like ëem," Guido began pushing at keys.
Frankie browsed through wine bottles, reading labels and checking the prices. He pulled his wallet from his pocket, leafing through the few bills to be found. He pulled the cheapest bottle he could find from the rack, and walked to the front of the store.  "Hi Guido." He called to the owner, who's head was down intent upon his lotto machine.
Guido looked up and over to the clock. "Hay Frankie, how ya doin?"His head returned to the lotto machine.
"I'm ok." Frankie responded to a preoccupied Guido.
Guido made a notation. "Mr. Ferrara, Frankie here has a hot date.  How's about I ring him up?"
Ferrars puffed up his small frame as best he could. "Frankie's hot date is gonna wait, I need those numers before eight, now get with it Guido." He snarled and glared at Frankie.
Frankie had difficulty not staring at the clock clicking closer to eight. He could envision Sadie slipping off her uniform, and leaving the diner. He wouldn't be able to see her until Monday.  Monday was to damn far, too far to think about. "Gotta see her tonight."
Guido placed the two hundred and fifty tickets in front of Mr.  Ferrara. "There you go Mr. Ferrara, two fifty, just like you wanted."
Ferrara's hand reached for the tickets. "How's about a bag, don't to lose one."
"Don't need a bag, want to see the numbers, feel the paper, know that I got the winner here." He grabbed at his purchase.
"That's what I been telling my customers all day, got the winner here in my store."
Ferrara smiled. "No Guido, I got the number here in my hands."  He shook the numers at Guido as he left the store.
"I don't know why he buys those things, he is as rich as The Donald. Putz." Guido shook his head and reached for Frankie's bottle. "What you got there Frankie." He looked at the wine. "You don't take this for a date with a girl, this you drink in an alley." He laughed.
"All I could afford Guido, that bad, huh?"
Guido rang up the wine. "How about a ticket, maybe Ferrara didn't get it, the big winner, never know?"
Frankie handed over all his money to Guido. "That's all I got."
"Some hot date she is going to have." Guido laughed at his joke and Frankies predicament as he slid the bottle into a bag.  "Night Frankie." Frankie nodded as he went to the door.
Joe Ferrara stood below the street light, lotto tickets fanned out in his hands, his lips moved as he read through the number series, squeaks of glee were emited from his mouh as lucky series were found. He knew that this was going to be his day. He wasn't going to buy anything. He had his rentals, oiffice building. He could buy more, but more buildings, more headaches. He wanted to hold the money, millions, tens of millions in his hands, smell it and feel it. He was thinking of emptying that exta bedroom, filling it with money and just rolling in it.
The wind tugged at his collar, he reached up, turning up his overcoat just as a strong gust ripped at his ticket pulling them from his hand sending them skyward in a swirling eddy.
Frankie stepped out of Guido's just in time to see what appeared to be a flurry of snow sliding up to the street lamp.  Ferrara stretched as high as his small frame would allow, his arthritic hands grasping at the ascending tickets. He stood for a mement, staring at his departing fortune. "Mr. Ferrara, can I help, wha's the matter?" Frankie asked.
Ferrara doubled up and sobbed. "My tickets, ever last ticket is gone." Frankie put his hand on the greiving mans shoulder.  "Get away, Joe Ferrara don' need your help. Joe Ferra needs nobody's help." He yanked his shoulder away from Frankie.
"I just wanted to help was all."
"Like I says, don't need no help." Ferrara straightened, and shrugged away from frankie, shuffling through the accumulating snow down into the darkness of the receding sidewalk.
Frankie slipped the wine into his coat pocket, and buttoned his collar against the encroaching wind.


















SANDERS THE BIG DINNER

Sanders trudged up the steps to the brownstone, dreading the evening to be endured . Mamma yammering, extolling the talent and beauty of her favorite niece.  Mona, bookish Mona, with the inch thick glasses and the steel mesh mouth.  It had been two years ago, the last such fete.
As he reached for the knob the door was yanked open.  There stood Mamma, all four-foot-ten inches of her.  Her freshly permed curls, in their pink wash matching the chiffon gown that enveloped her diminutive form.  "Archibald, how wonderful to have you home."  Her arms reached up to her son, the falsity was the routine when guests were in the house.  He bent to her, they allowed one another a quick peck to the cheek.  She whispered.  "You be nice to her."  He sighed the sigh of the depressed.
Mamma turned aside and motioned.  "And Archibald look who we have here." Standing in the entry to the dining room stood cousin Mona.  Dowdy, mousy  Mona, replaced by someone having only a slight semblance of of the previous incarnation.
Sanders stood transfixed.  He was unable to take his eyes off the "little black dress", the dress all men fanaticize over.  Mamma's little Mona was wearing that dress.  The glasses, where were the glasses, she was blind with out them.  Her eyes were blue, they had always been blue but the coke bottle lenses distorted the lustre and sparkle he was seeing.  Sparkle that smile, where is all the metal, "Metal mouth Mona." That was my name for her "Archibald, don't just stand there, say something to your cousin, give her a kiss."
Sanders faltered toward her, his lips twitching a vague smile.  He pronounced.  "Mona." And stumbled into her.  His cousin steadied him, drawing him close giving a full mouthed kiss.  He was stunned, a deer in the beams of a Mack truck.  It was the dress, the dark hair draping down to her shoulders, the deep "V" of her dress exposing small round breast, sumptuous, ripe ready to be picked.  He inhaled her cologne, the room seemed to dip and swirl.  His knees felt like they were going to slump.
"Archibald, what is the matter with you?" Mamma demanded.  Tugging at his overcoat she turned him to her.  She sniffed at him.  "Have you been at that "Dinky" place again." She had her hands on her hips glaring.
"Now Mamma I just had one small highball." He motioned with his thumb and forefinger indicating a drink much smaller that that which he had imbibed.
"Mamma." Mona always referred to Mamma, as Mamma.  "It' been two years since I saw Archie last." Archie, did Sanders hear that right, not Archibald.  Archie was an improvement.  She held his arm tight, she smiled up into his face.  He was feeing woozy again.
"It's warm in here." Sanders began working at his overcoat buttons as Mamma and Mona guided him to a chair in the dining room, where he sat and removed the garment.
Sanders leaned back in his chair, Mona noticed persperation on his upper lip.  "Mamma, Archie might needs some water, he doesn't look well." She patted his hand and ran her fingers through his hair.  He relaxed and exhaled a deep sigh.
"I've warned him about those places, and drinking." Mamma scolded as she went for the water.
"I've always admired your hair it is just so dark and thick." Her eyes followed deep rich furrows her fingers created in his hair.  Mamma stood in the doorway, the glass of water in hand, taking in her son at peace, and Mona caressing his hair.  Her dreams were fulfilled, her life was complete.
















CHAPTER XVI

DECKERS CHOICE
Decker listened to his wife rage on the other side of the closed door.  He toyed with the cell phone, then slipped it into his pocket.  He thought about Sharry and Angie.  His partner was like a brother to him, all those years, college, friends working together.  Did he really know his friend or his wife.  He shrugged as he worked his way down the stairs in a daze.
On the sidewalk he looked for a cab, seeing none he took out his phone again, then flipped it closed.  His bike would be quicker and easier to park.  Behind the apartment he opened the small storage shed, and rolled out the cycle.  Didn't ride as much as he would like.  Sharry didn't approve.  Wasn't like the old days, high school when he rode with the Rancid Riders.  They liked to look tough, but cool was more what they were about.  They were girl magnets.  Girls liked ëem tough.  That made him think about Angie, the single guy, liked to be rough with the girls.  Maybe that is what Sharry wanted, what she missed.  Did she find that in his friend?
He pulled his leather jacket from a storage box, inhaled the aroma of cow hide and admired the Rancid Riders logo, once a Rider, always a Rider. He then pulled on his helmet; he preferred the feel of the wind in his hair.  However, tonight with the cold, he could lose his ears to frost bite. And last the gloves. He mounted his steed, turned the key, and she purred to life.  He gave her a few twists of the gas to throw out a few throaty bursts of energy.  More gas, and easing out on the clutch he rolled down the alley.  At the side walk he glanced down the street, hit the accelerator and shot between the traffic.
He was having difficulty processing so much at once.  He knew accounting, his job, his office, the clients.  Now he was out of his realm, his zone of comfort.  People relationships, God, what did he know, He thought he knew, yesterday, the day before.  He functioned or thought he had.
The traffic was beginning to back up, then came to a stop.  He leaned his bike to look down the block and on to the next.  Nothing but traffic and red lights.  There was an alley ahead, might be faster on the side streets.  He squeezed between cars and then turned down the narrow canyon between two office buildings.  The next  street only had a few cars, he recognized the neighborhood, Frankie's, Guido's liquor should be on the next block he thought.  The bike jumped as he gassed her, shooting past the liquor store.  His mind was on Angie and Sharry.  A shadow crossed into the street.  A street beginning to build slush and ice.  He couldn't break, he would lose control, he let up on he gas, and veered away from the figure.  The back of the bike whipped forward, as it spun it threw a froth of snow and ice in the air, and Decker into the side of a Silverhawk at the curb.
Mrs. Cecchi ran from the middle of the street to the corner, her groceries, scattered along the way.  Her hands went to her face.  She had difficulty looking down to where the unmoving body lay.  The unknown rider wedged between car and motorcycle.















CHAPTER XVII

MIDTOWN DINER NIGHT
Frankie meets Sadie for the big date Miss Cory what will you have tonight.
"Now let me see, umm, it all looks so good." The elderly woman paged through the menue, looked up at Sadie and back to her task.  "Well now, why don't I have my usual." She smiled as she handed it back to her waitress.
"Tuna on rye, lettuce, hold the tomatoe and just a thin swipe of the Mayo, fries, and should I refill your ice tea Miss Cory."
"Yes that will be fine Sadie."
Sadie slapped the order on the cooks counter. "Miss Corey, the usual."
Herbie nursed his coffee, Sadie apraised his mug, grabbed the fresh pot and headed downthe counter  to him. "Herbie, cold out there tonight, let me give you a refill."
He slid the cup forward so she could pour the dark steaming fluid into his waiting mug.
The door swung oppen, wind blowing in pellets of snow and Frankie.  He closed the door, looked to Miss Cory, Herbie and the cook, but he focused on Sadie. Laking a stool he opened his

Frankie looked at the woman, he had a knot in his stomach, she's gorgeous. He knew that there had to be a better word, that was the best he could come up with. He was in awe of here. Hefting the bottle stuffed low in his overcoat pocket he felt it wouldn't be right, not for her. I should leave now, god! I'm just making a fool of myself. His feet began to pivot to the door, she'll understand. "Frankie, I'm ready." She was standing behind him, bundled in her overcoat, that open smile on her lips.
















CHAPTER XVIII

MONA'S APARTMENT
"Archie, you are such a gentleman to walk me home." Mona said.  The snow crunched under their feet as they progress down the sidewalk.  "Why don't you hold my hand.  We can steady one another, I don't want to fall." Sanders reached for her hand, she giggled.  "It is so quiet when it snows, the flakes muffle sounds.  I guess that is why."
"I can't get over how different you are Mona.  You are a woman now.  You are just so changed." Sanders complimented.  He was pleased with himself.  And Mona rewarded him with a my hero smile.  Just maybe he could stripp away that little black dress.
Mona stopped.  "This is my building Archie." She continued to hold his hand.  "Thank you for walking with me.  I would like to show my appreciation.  Would you come up with me." She turned her face to him, she offered her lips.  He hesitated, then moved to her kissing her lightly, she slid her arms inside his coat, gathering him to her, their mouths met for a full-bodied kiss.
She pushed back, giggling.  "Come up Archie, we can have a drink, well chocolate,  or coffee Mamma would not approve of liquor."
Hand in hand they went up the steps and into the entry vestibule.  A row of mail boxes covered one wall.  At the far end a man stood, looking into his empty box muttering.  "Guido had the winner, Guido had the winner."
As they took the stair up to Mona's apartment Sanders asked.  "Who  was that?"
"Joe Ferrara, he owns this building and a hundred more in the city.  This is the only nice one, he lives here."
The apartment is not small, but not large.  It is neat and clean but modest in furnishings.  Sanders is impress by her acomplishment.
Here is my small sitting area, my dining table and kitchen nook.  I am especially proud of this room.  Mona slides aside to doors exposing a large bedroom, for the size of the apartment and a kingsized bed.  She allows Sanders a view of her domain.  She allows him to brush past her, her hand rubbing him with intent.  He sucked air and reddened.  She moved to him, pulling away his jacket, tugging at his shirt, slipping her dress from her shoulers, and with a free hand she slapped the light switch off.  The room fell to darkness.  "Archie do you want me." She asked.
"Oh, yes Mona.  I want you, I have always wanted you She snickered.  "Oh Archie you are just more man than I can handle."
"Mona you are so soft, so beautiful,î He stammered, ìMamma would like it if we got married."















Exploring the Depths

Frankie and Sadie explore life.  Sadie's Apartment torn vinyl seat is covered with duct tape  "Nice use of the tape" Frankie commented.
Sadie stared him down. "I got the idea from Town and Country."
"Yeah, that looks like a lotta country." Frankie rejoined as he sat in the chair. "It works." He gave her a smug smile.
Talk of  Cajun country Tabasco sauce "Empty your pockets."
"What is this, I've heard of people like you, take everything I have, throw me in an alley, my mother I.D.'s  me in the morgue, if I'm lucky."
"Yeah Frankie, do I look like that sort of person." She leaned back, crossing her arms. "Just empty the pockets, my Grandmother taught me this." He began pulling the contents from his pockets: used tissue, a few coins, the change from Guido's, and lint." She picked-up the tissue by an unused edge, tossing it in the trash.  The lint was wisked to the floor with a quick stroke of her hand.  She gazed at Frankie. "No wallet? I cant do this without everything"
Frankie's hands--As Frankie pulls his possessions from his pockets, laying them on the table, sadie grabs his wrist, with the other hand she ran her fingers across his palm and traced along his finger tips, noting the missing digit on his fore finger.
"That's it I'm going." He reached for his possessions, she grabbed his wrist.
"Not so fast, you brought that bottle of fine wine, and I gave up a date with a Wall Street power broker for you. Get the wallet out here." Her brown eyes sparkled at him, they were a deep, dark color.
His hand moved to his pocket, with effort he extracted the slim wallet, he then placed it on the table. Sadie began her inspection, pulling out a few business cards, a drivers license and a set of photographs. Her eyes rose to mtet his. "And for this I'm going to murder you, and drag you away to some alley." Her mouth exhaled something between a groan and a clacking sound. She began arranging his belongings before her. She made a variety of indiscernible sighs as she made her analysis.
"Well, maybe I shouldn't have turned down that power broker."  She went back to the Frankie loot. She leaned back in her chair examining the collection of photographs.  "Your Mother?" She placed the picture in front of him, he nodded. "Ah, the gang, a few years ago. I see the big guy, Lenny, is that right?"
Sadie put the picture on the table. Frankie looked at the picture of the guys. That was the year Lenny talked them into going to the Catskills, Grossinger's, the rundown Grossinger's was in the background. Lenny wanted to go down memory lane and show off his new Silverhawk. "Yeah, those are the guys. It was a good trip."
She studied another picture. "Now who do we have here, pretty girl, a girl friend maybe."
"No, it's my sister." He responded to quick, to emphatic, Sadie let it go.
"How about that fine wine of yours?"
"We will need a cork screw."
"It has a cork, then it is a quality vintage." She laughed.  "Is that why you have no money ?"
He shrugged. "We need that cork screw."
"I'll see what I have." She walked to the utensil drawer where she began sorting through knives, spatulas, whisks and other odds and ends. He savored the chance to view the curve of her hips, the flow of her dark hair down her back.  She shook her head. She turned to  him. "Not a screw do I have. Now you know, I am not a connoisseur." She feigned humiliation.
Frankie slipped the bottle from the paper sack, studied the label placing it in the middle of the table next to the coins, business cards and picture. He put his elbows on the table and pressed his thumbs to his lips. He contemplated the disaster this evening had become. "We could go out on the town." Sadie suggested as she poked at the change on the table.
He looked up at her. "You hitting me over the head and dragging me into the alley is starting to sound like an improvement."
She pulled at his jacket. "Come over here we can talk on the couch."
They sat on the couch frankie in the corner, Sadie next to him her feet curled under her. she faces him intent upon their conversation. They talk of aspirations, what life should be like.  Sadie talks about having dreams of college, but just dreams.  Frankie talks about inventions, but the takes money and as sadie knows he is short where money is concerned.
Sadie talks about home, cajun country, family, friends, school Wayne and coming North Cajun country: water lakes bayous food: sounds: insects birds colors taste:
Tabasco catfish Sadie read several poems from a book and one she wrote. Frankie is impressed. he comments. she leans in and kisses frankie....
He brushed the back of his hands along her chin and down the side of her neck. She kissed his lips and pulled his hand to rest against her breast. They rolled back on the couch, she tugged at his shirt, he enveloping her mouth with his. Her back arched, she spoke "You will have to show me the way."
He kissed her neck, pulled at her buttons with his lips. She began to unbutton them for him. "What do you mean, show you the way."  He helped with the buttons.
"You know, how it's done." She pulled her blouse away, exposing an ivory chest and small round breast. His lips and tongue caressed her nipples. They hardened.
He looked at her. "Done, what do you mean done?"
"Frankie, don't talk, it feels to good.  I've never felt like this, with a guy's hardness." She bit into his neck, thrusting herself at him. "City Wayne couldn't do it, you'll have to help me."
He rolled away from her, sitting at the end of the couch.  "You've never done it, never had sex?" He put his face into his cupped hands. "You were with Moultrie for two years, living here."
"We've been together, well we were together since junior year in high school. We dated then after graduation we came North.  Wayne plays a good guitar and keyboard, he got into a band, he does well. Girls love him, they say he is a stallion." She began rebuttoning her blouse. "Is that it. Is this the way it is going to be for me. No guy will touch me when he finds out I'm a virgin." She stood and ran her fingers through her hair, smoothed out her wrinkles.
"All that time nothing happened."
"No nothing happened. We tried, oh how we tried. He couldn't.  He couldn't get it up. He took care of me, respected me, maybe too much. He couldn't perform, not with me. The groupies, the band followers thought he was hot. Word got around, back to me that he was great on the road, but not at home, not with me." Her voice was raw and wavering. Frankie listened. "I did some reading, found books at the big central library and several universities.  From what I read Wayne has the classic whore and madonna complex.  The woman he loves represents the mother who never loved him. He can't make love to his lover because she represents his mother, making love to her would be incest. Wayne left, we both thought it was for be the best." She sighed and fell back into the opposite end of the sofa. "You can leave now."
Frankie stood, looking down on Sadie he scrubbed at his beard that had gone beyond a five o'clock shadow. "It's just that this complicates things. I though, maybe that's the problem, I thought.  I expected you to be one way, and now you are the other. The problem with expecting.  Yeah, know what I mean. Life is that way, things go along we expect this is the way it is, and then it just ain't. It is different like you. I thought you would be a regular girl, nice, but experienced with things, like with this." His hands gestured outward from his sides.
"Sex, you can say it Frankie."
"Yeah, sex." He sat in his corner, crossing one leg over his knee, toying with his shoe lace. He looked at her. "Your a nice girl Sadie, a guy would be lucky to have a girl like you. You'd be nice to come home to, have kids with." He rested his head on the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling. "Nice girl. I'm sorry, I gotta confess I lied about the girl, the one in the picture."  He glanced to Sadie. She smiled.
"I know Frankie. Nice guys are not great liars, I saw it in your face. So who is the pretty girl?"
"Monica, Monica Stanski, well it was Stanski then. She was from the neighborhood, we dated, I loved her but she didn't think I had potential. She didn't say so, I knew. You know about things like that. I never dressed right for her, she would say things. I thought we could make it work. She found her guy, they have the big house, kids, she's happy and I'm glad for her. Glad she's happy." Sadie slid across the couch next to him, putting her hand on his.
"Unlucky in love, the both of us." She said. Frankie assented with a nod.
"The books over there, the poems, you seem like a college girl, how come you didn't go."
"I was offered a scholarship, Tulane in New Orleans, but there was Wayne and his music. I shouldn't blame him entirely, the thought of New York, the small town girl going off to the big city, that was exciting. Now it is too late. A waitress can't put together the money for a college degree.
"That's a shame you seem to have a talent, I enjoyed your words, the way they described things, like I was there with you.  You know like good words, professional like in a paper, or book, don't read a lot of books. I should shut up, I just keep going on."



Frankie tried not to have a complex about his job. He enjoyed working on cars, tinkering with engines. but, he was the only guy in the group that worked with his hands. Hands and finger nails that could never be clean no matter how hard he scrubbed at them. The others, Decker the accountant, Lenny the print shop supervisor, and Sanders, the tormentor of those he supervised, all had clean hands and carried an air of professionalism. Me, I got dirty hands, he thought.
The project he was working on, was not an invention, despite what Decker insisted on calling it. It was  more a tweaking of  an existing fuel intake system, he hoped this would move him up the scale. He wanted to be viewed as an engineer rather than a mechanic.


Sanders had sat in silence, the conversations flowing over and around him.




Sadie girl will get on him about accepting who he is. Having dirty hands doesn't make a man less than what he is inside.
"Yeah. I get your point, but shouldn't a person want to do better,. improve themself. How would progress be made if we always accepted things as they are?" He tried not to be too insistant.
"Hmm." Sadie folded her arms, tilted her head. "Yes. And no." She smirked.
"Ah. Sadie you cant have it both ways. Its yes or no."
"This is starting to sound likde a trial. Okay witness, answer the question yes or no." Her shoulder shook as she laughed.
"I can't."
"You must. Otherwise you will be charged with contempt of court."
"Franki held out his hands, wrist together. Cuff me up your honor."



















CHAPTER XX

Sanders just cant get enough

"Oh Archie, let me slip off your pants, you get your shirt.  Oh, Archie.  Now your shorts."
"Mona I've never met a woman like you."
"You will never forget tonight.  Archie did you read my book."
"Well...I...I was going to."
"Lay back Archie.  Stretch out, relax.  I want to be on top.  You will enjoy me on top.  I will be your master.  I will entertain you."
"Oh, Mona you can do whatever you want." In the darkness there is a clicking sound.  And then again.  What is that Mona?  My wrist I can't move my wrist." He protested.  A metallic sound, metal scraping against metal could be heard.
"Shush Archie, you are going to hurt your self.  It's a shame you didn't read my novel.  It is all there.  It's about us.  I almost forgot I need to put this on."
"The funs over Mona, I'll be going now.  Undue the whatÖ handcuffs, is that what they are?"
There is a ripping sound.  "In a while Archie, you need to know.  But first I'll put this on." Sanders feels something going across his face, he tries to turn away, fight it off, too late.  Duct tape, the taste, feel and smell of duct tape.  He pulled his wrist and twisted his head.  Then she began pulling at his feet.  Again there was the clicking sound.  He was unable to move his legs.  His body torqued up and to the sides.
"Ummff!  Hlpfff!  Mmmfff!  Mmmfff!" His muffled screams and shouts became comic to Mona, she was enjoying her efforts.
"Too dark in here." She ran to the windows, flinging the drape open, allowing a gray glow from the street lamps to fill the room.  "That's better Archie, I want to see you enjoying our time together." His eyes were opened wide, the defused light caught the terror within.  Mona began removing the rest of her clothing.  She flicked her finger at the tip of Sanders nose.  "Now I remember you saying how you liked all the changes I've made." She turned in the light to let him see her body.  Let him see what he was going to enjoy.  "Do you like what I've done.  Oh, and don't worry cousin, I've practiced with other men.  I know how to give pleasure." She giggled her girlish laugh.  "I'm good, every man I've had leaves with his tail dragging out of here."
Her gaze returned to his eyes, eyes that expressed only fear.  She was happy, the project was going well.  She curled up next to Sanders kitten-like, her head on his shoulder, one hand toyed with the hair on his chest.  "Archie do you remember my high school prom." Archie didn't respond.  She lifted her head, he was studying the ceiling.  She grabbed a handful of chest hair and yanked.
"affffffff!" was Sanders only response.  He thrashed for a moment then remembered resistance was useless.
"That's better Archie, I was afraid you had fallen asleep.  Where was I. Oh, yes the prom.  You remember?" No response from Sanders.  Her grasp went back to his chest.
"Ummfff, ummfff." He responded.  His eyes focused on her.
"Good boy, you are learning fast." She patted his head.  "The prom, remember when you spent the night with the other boys, telling stories about me, reciting your favorite names for me.  "Coke eyes, metal mouth, String Bean Sally."  She rolled on top of him, leaning over him.  "Not much of a string bean now.  I saw the look at Mamma's house.  You were taking me in, disrobing me, having your way."
She flicked the tip of his nose again, he winced.  "How many years Archie, name calling, bullying, torment?  Unfortunately Archie I only get one night.  One night Archie is all I have, I have to make the best of it.  Years of torment released in one night.  I'm looking forward to it.  Aren't you?"
"Nffff!  Nfff!" Sanders protested.  She stroked him.  "Nfff!"
"Archie, youíre a big boy, well not so big, but you can handle it."
She applied more strokes.  "Nffff!  Nfff!"
Mona leaned forward, palms on his shoulders, stretching herself out, matching him head to toe.  "I've had better Archie, well to be honest, much better.  But you'll get the idea cousin, by morning most certainly you will understand."
Sanders body arched and quaked.  "Affff!  Afff!  Afff!"
She was sitting on his chest again.  "I don't think you will want to discuss this with your friends at Dinky's.  It might be too, well too hard to live down.  As for Mamma, I will have to explain that you were unable to fill my needs.  She will be disappointed, she was so looking forward to grandchildren.  She will understand, knowing you for the failure you are.  She erupted into another burst of giggles as she brought Sanders back to life.
"Nfff!  Nfff!  Nfff!" He rocked back and forth on the bead.
"I'm enjoying it also Archie." She spewed more giggles.
   

















Fortunetelling

Frankie turned his wrist watch, checking the time. "You have some place to go?" Sadie asked.  Frankie stood under the weak street light. Goose down snow flakes floated through the slant of light.  He pulled in on his jacket, shivering.
A burst of wind drove snow and litter into his face, he brushed and pulled at it, stuffing an offensive piece of paper into his pocket.  Frankie had a thing about throwing trash on the ground, just couldn't do it.
Sadie stood at her window looking out at the solitary figure in the thin cone of light. She sensed the warmth of her body inside her thick robe. She felt the ache at her middle. She wanted to hold Frankie, share a moment of pleasure, maybe a lifetime. She pushed at the window, attempting to move it up, it came loose with a screech, wind whipping at the curtain and her gown as it was raised. She shivered and tightened the robe about her.
"I told you, the bus won't be along for forty-five minutes. Maybe longer with this snow. Come in you are going to freeze."
"I'm okay, like the cold." He rubbed at his leaky nose with the back of his hand.
"I'm not giving up until you come in. The both of us are going to die a premature death."
He looked down the block, through the wall of flakes, no bus lights were to be seen. Sadie was still at the window, resolute, arms folded, not moving, then another inspection of the roadway, no bus. He shrugged and started for the steps down to the apartment.
As he passed the window she spoke softly. "I never finished telling your fortune; we will have to start over again."
















Morning seeped into the room. Mona at the side of her bed stretched and yawned. She wrapped herself in a modest robe. Behind her lay an inert Sanders, surrounded by vibrators, stimulators, and other gadgets from the trade. All guaranteed to provide a good time. "Archie." Mona whispered. She touched his arm, giving him a slight shake.  His body jolted, as if electrocuted, bloodshot eyes shot open."Nfff! Nfff! Nfff!" He pleaded."No Archie You are just too much a man for me, I couldn't possibly go another round with you." She patted his arm, he jerked away from her. She smiled a beatific smile."Archie you will really have to read my novel, and then you will understand the humor in this. I'm sure you will enjoy the story. The critics have just loved it." She smiled down at Sanders as she ripped the duct tape from his mouth.


<<<<>>>>

Going Home

John Coultas

Copyright © 2012

“Connor it ain't my doing.” Connor is pissed. But Connor is always pissed at something. He is coming off twelve hours on the perimeter. Twelve hours up in a tower, heat bearing down, staring at rice paddies, and nothing happening. No Viet Cong, not even a farmer tending his crop. Just the occasional water buffalo plodding across the diked fields.

I'm going home. Connor is staying right here, until his number comes up. I didn't exist to him until he realized another guy is going to be leaving country before him. Now, I materialized before him. Some guy that pulled strings. Kissed up, so he thought. Connor didn't get it, you serve your time and then off you go. Home. This is no conspiracy here.

Today Connor is scarier than usual: glassy, red-rimmed eyes, shaky hands, drool at the side of his mouth. What's the drug of choice today?

“You ain't going” Connor's voice trembles, the muzzle of his M-16 comes up, waving across my chest.“Cool it man. No need to get upset. Let's talk.” I sooth.

“Talk, nothin'. I'm taking your place. Freedom bird is goin'a take me home. Tha’s jus’ the way it’ll be!” Connor wipes at his mouth.

I watch his finger. It twitches over the trigger. “Damn you.” I reach out grabbing the muzzle, push it aside. Everything is going in slow motion. The flashes. The thump, thump sound. The burning heat. There is no pain. “Connor, you gotta be the worlds worst shot.”

I’m on the floor, looking up at the ceiling. Flat on my back. Boots are thumping on the barrack’s floor. Shouts: “Call the medics!” “Waste of time!” “Get that weapon away from Connor before he kills someone else!” “Captain’s going to raise hell.” “Forget the Captain, he’s drunk as usual.”

I say, “Hey guys nothing to worry about, probably nothing but a grazing wound. Get me up from here.”

“Medics were in the mess hall, here they come.” Someone is saying.

Another shout. There is so much noise. “Is that Connors I hear crying” I seem to be the only calm person in the hootch.

“Didn’t mean to shoot him. Thing jus’ wen’ off.” Yeah, that’s Connors.

“Hey Richard.” One of the medics, we hung out at Earnie’s hamburger stand back home. Saturday nights we polished up our cars, cruised the boulevard and met at Earnie’s. “Fix me up Richard. I’m going home, Julie is waiting for me. You remember Julie.”

I look up at him, his hands pull away my fatigue jacket, his face goes white, his shoulders slump. With the back of his hand he swipes at his eyes. “Jones!” He calls to the other medic, “forget the bandages. Let’s get him on the litter.”

“Richard I’m no medic, I know you gotta slap some bandages on somewhere. That’s what you do. But not today?” They toss me on the olive drab canvas litter and slowly carry me down to the field ambulance. “Come on Richard, we can move faster than this. I gotta get back. Finish packing.” He and Jones don’t get the message.

In the ambulance we bounce over every pot hole and crater to be found, hardly V.I.P. treatment. “Ill remind you of this when you get back home.” I call over the truck noise.

I’ve seen the dispensary Doc at work. He’s good. He’ll get these guys squared away.

The ambulance throws up a cloud of dust when we get to the Aid Station. Who wants to be covered with a coat of dust. They give me the same slow walk inside. “Richard, you know what it’s like. Wanting to see your girl. Speed it up, I’m going home.”

They put me in the corner, away from the action. Doc is finishing up, stripping off his gloves and looks at me. Hands on his hips he does that mental triage thing. this I could see. “Over here. I’m next.” I demand.

“Jackson, Jones take care of our friendly fire casualty there.” The doctor calls out, nods at me. “You call this friendly fire. Drug crazed Connor popping off. Doc you get over here. You fix me up.”

Richard has come back. Now he has a hefty pair of scissors. He begins cutting away my shirt. “Stop right there! What are you doing. I need this for just a few more days. Then I’m a civilian, no more need for Uncle Sam’s property.”

My old friend keeps up the cutting. He pushes me on my side, then pulls away my shredded shirt. Now the worst begins. They take my wallet out of my back pocket. Army ID, Michigan divers license, “No!” Don’t you dare touch the pictures. “Doc!” I yell. “Tell them not to touch the pictures.” Why should I have expected anyone to listen.

“Yeah, this is his car.” Richard shows Jones the picture of my metallic blue, GTO. “Always had it polished to a high shine.” Now the picture of Julie. I don’t let just anyone look at her. She’s special. Jackson shakes his head, looks her blonde hair and blue eyes, her bright smile and the pink formal. “Prom picture.” Jackson says.

“Okay guys.” Doc is hovering over us. “I’ll take over.” He wears a new set of gloves, he bends down, pushes and prods. He uses his gloved fingers to probe the wound. Where did that come from?

“Hey Doc, not so deep. Connor just grazed me.” I protest.

Doc writes on a card with a dangling string, hands it to Richard, who ties it around my big toe. “What’s this all about. I’ve had enough. Take me back to my barracks. I thought you were better than this.”

Jones, the other medic comes over with a big bag, looks to be rubberized canvas, smelling of disinfectants. “Okay Jackson.” Jones says. They lay the bag on the floor and slip me inside.

“Now what?” Why do I bother asking. No one has been talking to me since this nightmare started. Jones pulls on the zipper, the bag begins to close. And me, I begin shouting. “Stop! Stop! What are you doing? I’m going home!”

Tripping Over Murder

Copyright © 2016  John Coultas

CHAPTER 1

Janean Clark hadn’t intended to live her life this way. Small. Everything in her life was lived in a small way. Not that she was physically short--she was five seven if she pushed up on the balls of her feet just a bit. She lived in the Village. Mom and Dad had an apartment over the deli, Grandma lived across the hall. She attended neighborhood schools and even college was within the village precincts. Walking down the street, visiting hairdressers, buying the groceries, it was always a hello, and exchange of gossip, hows the family? Is that new baby getting bigger? It was a small town, neighborly life.

Everyone knew the City was out there. But their needs were met at the local butcher, green grocer or coffee shop. They didn’t need Central Park, they had Washington Square. Broadway wasn’t far, but there was always Cafe Wha? or one of the other many small clubs for entertainment. Small was just fine with Janean Clark.

An avid reader as a child, it was only natural that she should become a librarian. Janean worked in the small branch library, also in the Village.

"Hey Arlo, how’s it going? Haven't seen you for a while." Janean gave Arlo a gentle punch to the shoulder. She was standing behind the teen librarian's desk. She thumbed through a printout of new books just delivered. Arlo was a good guy, he didn't come around as much as when he was younger, but high school has its demands.

"I'm cool, just hanging out here and there." Arlo gave the librarian a shy smile. He peered into one of the boxes being inventoried by Janean. "Dude, this is too good!" He picked up a graphic novel. "I've been waiting for this one, number five in the series, I gotta read it." He pulled it to his chest, indicating his intention of never letting it go. Janean gave him a knowing nod. He was still a dedicated reader, that warmed her librarian's heart.

"You, and 1000 other kids in the neighborhood have been waiting, and not too patiently." She sat at her desk and began tapping away on her computer keyboard, her finger scrolling down the screen. "Ah, I see you put your name down on the reserve list early on. You won't have to wait long." She held out her hand, and Arlo with a pained expression returned the book. "We'll give this one priority treatment, shouldn't be more than a month." Arlo gasped. He crumpled forward supporting himself with his right hand on Janean's desk.

"A month…You mean a whole month, I can't wait a month." His left hand went to his chest, he began breathing erratically. "I feel a heart attack coming on, quick, this is my last chance, please, can't I have it now?"

"How are your acting classes coming along?” She gave him a wry smile. “Why do I ask after that Tony award-winning performance?" She gave her young friend a knowing look.

At that moment there was a crashing sound at the front door. It was flung open by one Osgood Lomax. Drug dealer, pimp, extortionist, Lomax represented the under belly of village society. Every location seemed to need the type. He stumbled and staggered his way through a group of shrieking children lined up for check-out. Staff scurried to protect them. Lomax was breathing heavily shrugging at his overcoat and looking back to the front door.

The intruder began taking long strides towards the staff room at the back of the library. "Arlo!” Janean called, the young man stood slack jawed, staring at the door crasher. “I'll take care of your book, why don't you leave now! It might be safer."

Janean stepped between Lomax, and the staff room door. "You can't go back there, that's a private area."

"Out of my way, I go wherever I wanna go." Lomax's bloodshot eyes had a glazed look, and his mouth twisted to a sneer. He pushed Janean aside. "Out of my way bitch." As Janean fell to the floor, Lomax threw his weight into the door marked Private, and plowed into the room. She heard a shriek of pain, scrambling to her feet she grabbed a handy Encyclopedia, and followed after the cries for help. She was angry before, she was now incensed. Laying on the floor Lomax was entangled in the spokes of Janean's prized bicycle. The bike was more than a mode of transportation, it was a friend, a confidant. She went nowhere in the Village without Bucephalus, yes the name was bit much, but that was just the way she felt about her trusty steed. It pained her to view the twisted wheel, becoming more twisted as Lomax fought for escape.

The weapon was in her hand, she acted without malice aforethought, her brain flashed to a red haze. She had heard of such behavior, the warped mind of the criminal, acting without thought, or judgment. As with most people she was cynical, that is just what a criminal does, it is a lawyerly cop-out, psychobabble to get the client off. But that is exactly how the crime occurred. The encyclopedia was swung high into the air, then gravity took control bringing it down to crash into the top of Osgood Lomax's exposed head with a thunk, to be followed by further thunkings. The hood’s life was no doubt saved by the arrival of officers from the local precinct.

"That's enough ma'am," the police officer took the Encyclopedia from Janean's white knuckled fingers. "Want to stand back over there ma'am, we'll take over from here." Janean's shoulders slumped, as she shuffled to the side, she took in what she'd done to Lomax, and what Lomax had done to her beloved bike. She was in a daze. So this is what it feels like when you beat somebody up. I feel kind of dirty. Not the way I thought it would feel.

Lomax seemed to come to his senses, sitting up, realizing that he was surrounded by NYPD officers. He fixed a stupid, glassy look on Janean. She didn't know how to take it, what was behind it, what he was about. The guy was scary, scary stupid, you just didn't know what to expect.

Beyond Janean's tortured bicycle she noticed small plastic packets containing a white powder. One of the officers began going around the office picking them up, and placing them in an evidence bag. The other cop, tending to the injured Lomax grabbed one of the packets. "Lomax, this looks like your stash." He tossed it in the palm of his hand, Lomax smiled.

"Ain’t my stuff. It was on the floor when I came in here. Belongs to that bitch over there." Lomax gave Janean a nasty sneer.

The officer looked up at Janean, "Are these yours ma'am?" He asked, suppressing a smile. Janean was shocked by the question. I'm a librarian. A double espresso is my idea of a high, she thought as she looked at Lomax, then to her twisted bicycle, and lastly at the drug packets accumulating in the bag and those remaining on the floor; her lips attempted to move, she could only shake her head in the negative.

Lomax cradled his head in his hands, and began moaning. "Man that's brutality, beating a man on his head with that big ol' book. That's brutality, and I'm gonna sue!"

Janean looked down at Lomax. He had a reputation in the neighborhood, and it was not good. It was a bad idea to cross him, he had a way of always evening the score. And he never spent much time behind bars. His lawyers got him back on the street in no time.

Thinking about this, Janean moved out of the room, finding her desk to be a place of comfort. The library was now vacant. At the front window some of braver neighbors were peering in to follow the action. This was the moment of moral crisis, maybe I should run, get away, act like this never happened. Her younger brother Peter had experiences with Lomax, none of them were of a positive nature. He carried several scars to remind him of the man's quick temper, and equally quick hands with a knife.

***

Hospital. Quiet Zone! Yeah. Beep! Beep! Beep! The monitor recording Janean's vital signs just wouldn't let up. She turned her head to see if anything on the phosphorus screen had changed. Nope, no flat lines, all was well. Nothing exciting going on there. After several days she had given up on the television. Virtual reality was virtual and certifiably unreal, and the repetition of advertisements and infomercials were driving her crazy. She was learning about all the latest dysfunctions and all the latest medications. Beep! Beep! Beep! Let me out of this place or I will go insane.

Janean’s survey of the monitor was thankfully disturbed by tapping at the door. "May I come in?" Standing in the doorway stood Esther Wasserman, reference librarian extraordinaire, from her branch library. Janean was startled, surprised, and embarrassed to be seen in her less than glamorous state.

"Come in, I'm losing it, I need someone to talk to." Janean was glad to see Esther. However, being seen like this, being a victim, she was uncomfortable. Who takes satisfaction from being the victim? Janean didn’t. This was a new low for her. Esther stood at the side of the bed, uncomfortable looking at her friend’s bruised and swollen face, along with the bandaged arms.

"Janean, how could anyone do this too you?" She wanted to hold her, kiss away the pain, and bruising. Esther was older, she had teenage children, she felt for Janean as she would feel for her own kids. There was no touching or kissing, she could only shake her head. "It was Lomax.” It had to be Lomax. Esther answered her own question with an affirmative nod.

There were tears in Esther’s eyes as she slipped a manila envelope from her purse giving it to her friend. She was angry, angry that she was forced to do this. Janean could see that it was not a get well card, and Esther's face revealed no message of sympathy. Opening the metal clasp, Janean shook out a collection of paper slips, sorting through them Janean found them to be job announcements. Announcements for jobs far from the Village, far from New York City. She too began to cry. She had thought about getting away from Lomax, but escape was an abstraction. The thought of leaving her family, the library, and her library kids. She couldn't comprehend how she would survive emotionally. She crumpled the announcements in her fist, tears streaking her face.

"You need to think about it, Lomax' lawyers always seem to get him out and onto the street. For me, please think about this." Esther sat on the bed holding Janean's uninjured hand. "And your family, how are they?" She took a Kleenex from her purse, dabbing at Janean's tears.

"My parents are putting on a brave face. They don't want me to feel worse. I know they must be dying inside. I'm sure, that in some way they blame themselves." Janean lay back and looked at the ceiling. "There isn't anyone to blame, well other than Lomax. Then there's my brother. When Peter came in to see me he went crazy--he made threats--I'm afraid, for him--for what would happen if he did something to Lomax."

Janean sighed, “And then there are the police. They want evidence to prosecute, but I didn’t see who it was. I thought the voice might have been his. I can’t say for certain. I don’t think you can convict someone on their voice and nothing else.”

"Arlo has been asking for you, and the kids made a card. It’s goofy, but you know your kids better than me." She pulled another envelope from her large purse. Janean began sobbing, her hands trembled as she took the card. Esther stood behind Janean, putting her hand on her friends shoulder. The decorations were colorful, the messages tore at her insides. She loved her kids and they loved her. How could she think of leaving that extended family?

"You'll think about it...those jobs?" Esther asked. She rested her head against Janean's

Then she left,  left, leaving Janean to her thoughts.

Her mind was muddled. There were too many concerns, her family, friends, the library and Lomax. Why should he have a controlling interest in her existence? He had no right. He was a thug who stumbled into her job. He had no business there. No business in her head. There ought to be a law against people like him!

Janean closed her eyes, breathing deep, wanting to focus, wanting to expel Lomax. The beeping was there again, reminding her she was with the living. Or was she? Is this really living?

CHAPTER 2

Somerset was tucked away against the rocky coast of New England. A region known for treacherous winters and an unforgiving sea.  The town learned to endure. There lived a hardy people: fishermen, loggers, and farmers. Men and women who went about their daily toil, taking satisfaction from an honest days labor. Well, some, not all.

Miss Chamber’s hand shook, the age spots strobed as she gave the note to Detective Kane. "Read it!" She spat. Her lips were pressed to a thin white margin, her face reddening against the shroud of gray hair. "Here in Somerset, who would do such a thing, prowling at night, peering in windows? Read it, you will see, every movement--what I was wearing. For hours, undetected." The detective began reading the type written letter. "Where were the police, how is it possible for a criminal to stalk a law-abiding citizen, unmolested?" She raged on.

The officer sighed, and looked to the Library Director.

 "Well, aren't you going to read the note," she demanded.

He looked down to begin again.

"He was so close that he knew what I was reading and the flavor of tea I was drinking." She pulled at her handkerchief.

Another sigh came from Detective Kane as he crossed his arms. "I'll analyze this at the station." He said, knowing the interruptions would not end.

"Could this have anything to do with Mr. Porter's lecture?" He asked.

She stretched to her full height, chin thrust forward. "Mr. Porter has every right, and I as the Library Director have a responsibility to present issues of public concern. Issues that might be contrary to majority viewpoints in particular.”

Kane gave a noncommittal nod, as he felt his insides churn.

Detective Dan Kane was a native of Somerset. He grew up playing around the harbor and hiking into the woodlands with friends. Education was of secondary interest, the pursuit of fun concerned him most. On rare occasions school assignments would force him to push open the heavy oak doors that were the guardians of the village library. And when he failed to return a book on time or committed the criminal offense of losing an item he would be subjected to a reprimand by the director. Her office had the same dark walnut paneling and ceiling high book shelves. Her domain bespoke power and authority. Even now he felt the smallness she inflicted upon miscreants, towering over small beings, intimidating them with her height and scowl. Kane began to sweat as he thought about the symptoms of PTSD. Could it have been that traumatic?

"What are you going to do about it?" Her finger wagged at the note.

The director’s shout startled the detective, shaking him back to reality.  "Ma'am?" The officer questioned.

"The note, this stalker, this can not be allowed to continue." Her body began to shake with rage. She would not be put off; Her concerns would not be ignored by this lowly civil servant. "I will speak to the Board of Selectmen if you do not take immediate action," She slapped her hand on her office desk.

Heloise Chambers did not consider herself a native of Somerset. She was Somerset. The Chambers ancestors  were the earliest settlers of the village. Early on they established themselves as the wielders of local power, owning prime timber to build homes, businesses and ships. And many of the ships they built and owned were involved in whaling and the slave trade. They were not bothered with the niceties of such activities. Many of the local institutions had been endowed or inspired by the Chambers dynasty, including the town library that she managed. She was the last of the sturdy stock, she would not allow her authority to be tested.

"We will patrol your house and the neighborhood. Should you suspect anyone ... see anyone suspicious, you let us know," The wearied officer promised.

"You could start with that Ian Dole. That man is violent, he has made threats. I know he is behind some of the terrorist attacks in the harbor and at the new resort. You know how he is. He should have been arrested years ago.” She gave Kane an accusing scowl.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“He came up from Boston, knowing better than us." She held her hands together, attempting to control the shaking. “He has been a source of problems ever since his arrival in Somerset.”

"Yes, ma'am," Kane repeated. "We will study the note, send it to the crime lab. And we will be watching your house."

"And Mr. Dole?"

"I'll be talking to him, see where he has been spending his nights. And anyone else that is of interest." He gave her a weak smile as he left.

Kane walked down the corridor past offices and the large workroom, then out into the public part of the library. There was a children’s room with a reading area before the cozy fireplace, and pint sized shelves for the little readers. On the opposite side were the books for the adult readers. Kane shuddered, memories of the stern director and her equally intimidating minions. He rubbed at his rumbling stomach, took a antacid from his pocket and popped it in his mouth. Libraries! He growled to himself.

***

Mary Smart, member of the Somerset Library Board, often questioned her sanity, as did her husband and daughter. Problem was, she and they, all believed in what a library could bring to a community. An isolated, New England village was in need of a dynamic, state of the art library--something the current director and her arcane staff could, but would not deliver on. Miss Chambers had no intention of bringing about change; she was comfortable, as were her cohort, “with things as they were.”

Mary sat at the large conference table, she studied her fellow board members. They were  a well intentioned group: Mr. Temple, a respected accountant, Mrs. Pruitt, Principal at the Margaret Chase Smith Elementary School, Mrs. Factor, President of the Somerset Garden Club, and Mr. Gilcrest, owner of Gilcrest Fine Books. Well, Mr. Gilcrest might not be so well intentioned. Mrs. Smart had crossed swords with the supercilious man more than once. He was always a guaranteed vote to support whatever the Director demanded of her board.

Tonight was to be the night; she had been planning for several years, studying library journals, town demographics and attending library conferences. She had also been cultivating receptive board members with her ideas. If she was going to bring change, this was the moment. “Mr. Chairman, I propose an amendment to the personnel line item.”

Mr. Gilcrest, chairman of the board cleared his throat, adjusted his half-glasses and looked to Miss Chambers. “And your amendment would be?” Gilcrest questioned.

Mary pulled a stack of papers from her briefcase, placing them in the middle of the table. Pointing to the documents she began, “I am proposing that the library add a new position to the staff. The documents, journal articles, state library statistics, village demographics all point to the necessity of hiring a Teen Librarian.”

Miss Chambers gasped.

Mary glanced at her then carried on. “A librarian that will specifically serve the needs of Somerset’s young adult population.”

Miss Chambers sputtered, “I just don't understand. Our library fine revenue is the highest it has ever been, and we checkout more books...”

“Miss Chambers we have gone over the numbers. We understand all that. What we...” Mary looked around the table, unsure of her support. “What I don't understand is your resistance to serving this segment of the community. Libraries have a mission to--”

Mr. Gilcrest interrupted. “May I intercede at this juncture? Many libraries have tried to deal with this unique population for years with little success. I for one...”

Mrs. Smart was red faced with anger. She has having difficulty controlling her temper and her words. She jumped back in. “Mr. Gilcrest, your insensitivity to this population is well known,” she stammered. The elderly bachelor lacked experience or empathy with young people. Teens were barred from his shop.

***

Meeting adjourned, the defeated library Director and her protégé, Gilcrest, stood on the steps before the old Carnegie library.

The night air was heavy with moisture, and the mournful sound of a loon brought solemnity to the evening.

 “You must be calm,” Gilcrest advised, as he patted her folded arms.

Her chest heaved, she was unable to speak.

“This too shall pass away,” He soothed.

“That Mrs. Smart. If her husband weren't a Selectman, we would not be subjected to her nattering about those unclean wretches.” She shook her head, wiped at her forehead with a soddened handkerchief, turned and walked into the descending fog.

***

The early morning light sifted through the window laying a path across the ivory, laced tablecloth. The library staff busied themselves laying out China and silverware. Miss Morrissey the oldest of the staff twittered, and fussed over the teapot, removing the tea cozy, she centered it on the table, steam rising through the spout spiraling up across the beam of sunlight. The common thread, binding them together, was their gray hair; and variations of hues, primarily pinks, and blues.

Miss Bennett adjusted the two vases filled with fresh flowers, assuring herself that they were perfect. She supervised the distribution of the agenda packets; the day following the library board meeting, staff gathered to be informed of new policies or procedures. Not that change often resulted from the meeting. This was Miss Chambers opportunity to communicate the wishes of the board to her staff. Several of those so gathered attempted to coax inside information from Miss Bennett. “Patience, we will just have to wait for Miss Chambers. I’m sure that she will be here any moment.”

“And, so I am.” Miss Chambers stood in the doorway, her face the picture of ill controlled rage. All eyes turned to the library director, everyone anticipating a wave of turmoil. Miss Chambers gripped her gloves, her fingers turning white. Miss Morrissey anticipating the worst sank to a chair. Miss Bennett’s hand went to her mouth, suppressing words of shock. “Yes, it is just that bad.” The Director announced. Everyone seemed to exhale a tremor of foreboding, finding a chair, awaiting the full depth of the message from their leader. “Mary Smart, that woman, she should never have been allowed on the library board.” She expressed as if they were profanities.

Miss Chambers looked from one staff member to the other, “the news, it’s not good. She is forcing us, Mrs. Smart, to hire a young adult librarian.”

Miss Morrissey sobbed, “No, no it can’t be? Who will it be, I can’t do it. I can’t talk to them, they are just so…? Different, they’re just not like us.”

Other staff members looked from one to another, whispering, asking who it would be, which staff member would be sacrificed to work with those ignoble cretins.

Miss Bennett waved her hand feebly, “But who? Which of us will be asked to work with them, those people?”

Miss Chambers sat, holding her purse in her lap, twisting her glove to a knot. “Someone… Someone from outside, not from Somerset, someone from a big city, perhaps from Portland, or Bangor.”

There was a collective gasp from the staff.

Miss Bennett shook. There were moans and shouts:

“An outsider!”

“Not someone from a big city, that can’t be!”

“They wouldn’t understand us, they wouldn’t be like us.!”

“Someone from Bangor, or Portland just wouldn’t understand our ways!”

“We can’t allow this to happen!”

Miss Morrissey cringed at the noise and emotional outburst. She sank lower and lower in her chair.

Miss Chambers looked around the room in shock, never had she seen her staff more devastated, more demoralized. “There is nothing to be done. Mrs. Smart has gained the influence of a majority of the board. We can only hope that the new person will be amenable to our ways.”

Absentmindedly Miss Chambers hand went to the platter of tea cakes on the table, toying with an edge of a petit four, a confection she detested, she fed a few crumbs to her mouth then tossed it to the table with a moan.

CHAPTER 3

Mary Smart leaned back in her chair. “That interview went well,” she smiled and looked to the Director for a response. She received a sour face in reply.

Arms crossed over her ample bosom, Miss Chambers shook her head in the negative.

“Too young, no experience!” The flat tone indicated the Director had no interest in further discussion.

Mary shuffled through the papers before her on the conference table, pulling out two packets, she slid one copy to the sphinx-like Director. Miss Chambers reluctantly picked up the resume and application, lowering her glasses on her nose. She appeared to be sniffing out a vile odor. She made a cursory survey of both, and dropped it to the table. “Humph!” Was the extent of her input.

Mary attempted to concentrate on her review of the final candidate. She felt the Director’s eyes boring into her, rushing her along. This would be their final applicant. Each had either fine work experience or they showed commitment and creativity in their responses to the questions. Miss Chambers, however, found each to have an unacceptable character flaw. One young lady had a slight cast to one eye, Chambers felt that she was deceitful, she “Wouldn't look me in the eye.” There was nothing Mrs. Smart could say that would mitigate the prejudiced observation. On and on, Mary was subjected to negative comments from the Director. Well this is it, Mary thought. Our last candidate.

Putting down the packet, Mary smiled at the Director's ungiving countenance and said sweetly, “Should I bring in our next candidate?”

“Do we have to?” The Director slumped back into her chair.

Mary ignored the comment and the posture. She stood, opened the office door and brought in the final candidate. “Our next applicant, Miss Janean Clark.” Mary introduced.

The three women exchanged pleasantries—well, some were pleasant. Chambers continued to sniff out the unseen skunk in the room.

Chambers frowned at the application before her on the table, sour face in place. She targeted Janean." I see from your resume you are from New York City.” Chambers looked down her nose, peering through her glasses. “You have never lived in a small town, have you?” Her head gave a preemptive, negative shake, while fingernails tapped out a demanding staccato on the table.

“Greenwich Village, in many ways is a small town. There is a strong sense of community. I spent most of my life within the village, my education and first jobs were there.” She gave Chambers a charming smile. “So, I’m familiar with the experience. After all it takes a village,” She beamed.

Chambers frowned at the reference to her least favorite First Lady. “I would hardly refer to that city as a village.” “That city” was pronounced with a sneer.

Mary soldiered on, she would not let the Director’s negativity spoil this last opportunity to find the candidate they so much needed. They steadfastly worked through the questions.

“We have just a few more questions. Miss Clark, you have worked with young people before? What are your exact experiences?” Chambers clacked her fingernails on the table top.

Janean gave her question some thought. “I find that they want to be accepted just like everyone else. Programming should be geared to their needs and interest...”

Miss Chambers cut her short, “Yes, that’s fine, books, you support the classics?”

Janean knew this one would be tricky, she wanted to be honest, but not get into a generational dispute. “There is always a book component with programming, it is important to encourage reading, through magazines, books, graphic novels...

Chamber’s head jerked, and again, a frowning director interrupted the applicant. “Graphic novels? What are graphic novels...” She looked to Mary Smart, confusion on her face. “What are these graphic things?”

Mary went into panic mode. She was not going to have this bright young woman upended by an honest response. “Yes, of course Miss Chambers the classics and good reading are always important in the library. Miss Clark would concur with us that the great books will always have a place in our library. Don’t you agree?” She leaned forward, her face pleading for an affirmation from Janean.

Janean gave them both an angelic smile, “Of course Mrs. Smart.” Janean responded and Mary exhaled, allowing the tension to leave her body.

Mary Smart smiled, she had defused a major gaff.

“We have asked a good number of questions of you, Miss Clark. Do you have questions for us?”

“No I feel that everything has been covered. Mrs. Smart, this is my business card, you can reach me with my cell phone number. I will be leaving tomorrow morning.” Janean smiled to the Director as she left.

Chambers forced a false smile onto her sour façade.

***

Mary Smart tapped the pencil eraser on the conference table. “She is experienced, intelligent. She appears to be one who could  work well with a diverse population.”

The director’s face contorted, as if she was being forced to suck on a lemon. “I just don't know, I'm not sure that she would be the right fit for our staff.”

Mary was beginning to lose patience. “We have interviewed over twenty applicants--”

“Yes, yes,” Chambers interrupted. “but none have what we require here at the Somerset Library …a mature outlook.”

Mary ground her teeth together, attempting to control

a temper that was about to erupt. “Mature,” being a code word for a doddering, behind the times dinosaur.

“Mature, experienced librarians will not apply for an underpaid, beginning position,” Mary stated.

Miss Chambers smiled. “If that is the case why is Miss Clark applying for our position. What is she hiding?”

Mary finally realized she had entrapped the director. She had eliminated all but the last candidate, she had no where else to jump. “You have no choice. This is our last candidate, she meets, actually exceeds all of our requirements. You will have to hire her, we'll have to see about skeletons in the closet later.” She was having difficulty containing her glee, years of planning were now fulfilled.

Miss Chambers stood, smoothed out the wrinkles in her skirt. “Now your young lady will have to perform to my standards to keep the job you have given her.” She then strode from the room.

***

Janean inhaled the cool afternoon air. Interview over, she needed to relax, walk, de-stress. She stood on the bottom step, the library behind her. From that elevation, she overlooked the town and the boat filled harbor. Main Street ran up hill. Along both sides were retailers of flowers, gifts, beauty aids, and toys. An art gallery and coffee house caught her attention.

The bus, taking her back to New York would leave early the following day, she was certain she would never be here again. Might as well see the sights. The interview had drained her, she would recharge cruising the shops in downtown Somerset. She stopped at the window display of the gift shop, she looked up and down the vacant sidewalk, she had an unsettling feeling as if someone was watching her. She shrugged it off to being in a strange environment. There were only a few people out in the light rain and even fewer cars on the downtown streets. She stepped into the gift shop, pushing open the wooden door with lace curtains, a bell above tinkled, announcing another customer. The store was warm with the inviting aromas of pine and lavender. Behind the counter stood a robust, grandmotherly clerk, “Welcome to the Bee Hive.” She proclaimed with a strong voice. “We specialize in locally made crafts and confections. Our divinity fudge is known throughout New England.” She beamed with pride. Her patter was well practiced but had a note of sincerity.

Janean responded with a nod and “Just looking.” The shelves exhibited local talent and creativity: hand made wooden toys, homemade candles, soaps and other notions along with a library of local authors. At the back of the shop she surveyed the inviting confections. The door opened and the bell sounded again, a hulking figure in a trench coat and slouch hat stepped in. Janean could hear a muffled exchange between the clerk and the new customer. Head down she was tempted by the many sweets offered, but the divinity was just too devilish to pass on. Fudge in hand she wound her way around the many tempting displays to the counter.

“Ah ha! Our fudge was just too alluring. And I’m sure you will return again for another purchase.” The clerk said. The sale was slipped into a paper sack and the price rung up on the huge old cash register, which elicited the sounds of churning gears and a tinkling bell.

Janean, facing the clerk, again had the feeling of being watched, a shiver went up her spine. The large man, where did he go? She glanced to either side, no one was to be seen.

Standing in front of the shop she felt rattled, uncomfortable and chilled. Across the street was the coffee house. A hot cup and sampling some of the fudge would shake off her misgivings. She stepped down to the roadway, looked in both directions and darted across to the other side and the welcoming interior of The Higher Grounds. The few customers in the establishment were huddled over mugs of steaming brew in groups and a few solo drinkers, read papers or tapped text messages on their smart phones. Janean scanned the posters and fliers on the wall behind the barista’s counter advertising local art and musical events. She mused upon the variety of arts and crafts she had stumbled upon in such a short period of time. She chided herself for thinking of Greenwich Village and the City as being the center of the cultural universe.

She sat at a table facing the door. Her bag of fudge in one hand, the other grasped her steaming mug, perfect antidotes to chase off unease. Then the door flew open. A whoosh of cold air filled the room. He stood for a moment, his mass filling the entryway. Her teeth chattered. He wore a rumpled tan overcoat and a tweed hat pulled low. His dark eyes scanned the room, studying each face, they came to her, settled and focused. Her heart jumped a beat. His feet began to move, there was no doubt as to his goal. She watched the large blunted shoes, one placed in front of the other, progressing closer and closer. The large mass came to a stop, hovering over her. She looked from side to side, surely someone will come to my defense if he is the local flasher or mass murderer. His lips began to move.

“You jaywalked across the street.” He said this in an official sort of way, as from one on high. The past few hours played through her head, the interview from hell, the feeling of unease and now this hulking menace. And why is the local flasher, or perhaps serial killer calling into question my pedestrian misdemeanors. Her head sagged.

“I need to get out of here.” She mumbled into the mug that was fast losing it’s medicinal benefits. Her thoughts turned to sinister locales: Deliverance, Texas Chain Saw Massacre, Serial Killers of Somerset. If I survive this experience maybe I should write just such a screen play. A hand the size of a bear’s paw grasped the back of the opposite chair.

“May I join you?” He asked. Killers around here must be on the polite side. Her heart continued to thump, there was a rock in her stomach, but she had no intention of refusing his request and sending him into a rage. She had heard of psychotic killers being talked out of their rampage. She reluctantly nodded assent. He sat, then held out his hand. She shot back in her chair, nearly tipping backward to the floor.

“Officer Dan Kane, Somerset Police Department.” He smiled, a brilliant lustrous smile. His hand hung in midair, Janean stared, no blood, no claws, nails were actually civilized. Her tentative hand reach forward to be consumed by an appendage three or four times the size of her own.

“Do I need to contact a lawyer? Will you be placing me under arrest?” There was a quaver in the librarians voice.

“You’re not from around here are you?” He laughed. “You from New York? Don’t arrest people for jaywalking, just wanted to warn you, the law is watching.” He blasted out a laugh that got the attention off all the coffee drinkers. Some shook their heads making comments on the officers guffaw.

She smiled at his outburst. “So, how many years do I get for jaywalking, after I’ve gotten the warning?”

His face went serious, “Ten, maybe fifteen years.” Then the smile came back. “I heard that there was a pretty girl, come up from New York, interviewing for the library job. That would have to be you.” Janean blushed. Kane looked down at her coffee. “Nothing worse than cold coffee, I’ll get a fresh one for you and one for myself?” He stood and started for the order counter.

Wouldn’t be half bad living around here, having my own local protection. Kind of a big teddy bear of a guy. She mused as the officer shambled away.

***

The motel room was clean and basic. Janean had arrived the previous night, gone to the interview and toured the town. Now she would rest. Stretched on the bed, she relaxed, deep breathing will put me to sleep. It didn’t, she couldn’t take her thoughts away from the day. Mrs. Smart was nice and welcoming. The Library Director was forbidding. Could I work with her? What she saw of the library was quaint but old fashioned. There was not a computer to be seen. How can you run a library without a computer? These days you can’t do anything without electronics. She mused on this for a moment. Maybe they were hidden away, camouflaged to maintain the historical ambiance.

The image of the town, more a village, on the rugged seacoast wrapped around a boat harbor. She had never felt so close to nature. Fresh air, seagulls cackling, boatmen shouting boat to boat, the experience was novel. She gave thought to trading Greenwich Village for Somerset. No. It just isn’t me. I don’t think I could be a small town girl, not this small. Then Lomax, his snarling face invaded her mind. Yeah. Maybe I could live here after all.

Janean woke to a gurgling stomach. I haven’t eaten since…she remembered, the coffee house and the teddy bear of a cop. Fudge and coffee hardly ranked as a meal. The room was dark, the sun, as weak as it had been, had long ago departed. Dinner. I need food.

***

Develop Mike Smart some—develop Darlene, not to childish

“Right this way,” the waitress called out. It wasn’t fancy, more a family style restaurant. Janean was led to a table for two in a corner. Just her, there was no need for a large setting. Sitting and taking the menu she scanned the other tables, mostly families and a few couples. She was the only unescorted party. She busied herself studying the options. She attempted to ward off the feeling of being alone.

“Janean.” Came the voice. The librarian’s response was close to a whiplash-jerk. No one knows me here, I’m alone. Anonymous. She lowered the menu, Mary Smart smiled.

“Would you like to join us, my husband and daughter.” Her hand motioned to a table across the room. “My daughter, Darlene would love to meet you.” Janean could see Mr. Smart looking over the menu. Across from him was a young lady stretching her neck to see the prospective librarian.

“If it won’t be an imposition.” Janean took her purse and the menu. “Thank you.”

Mary stood behind her husband’s chair, “This is my husband Mike and my daughter Darlene.” Mary motioned. Janean extended her hand to Mike and nodded to Darlene. Hands were shaken and pleasantries exchanged.

Janean took small bites from her salad, but her attention was on the Smart family. Mike Smart, the pharmacist and city councilor, took a limited role in the conversation. Mary carried on an active conversation, discussing their lives in Boston and the move to Somerset. She indicated that she operated The Higher Grounds a local coffee house.

“Oh, I visited your shop this afternoon, after the interview. I came close to being arrested. A local police officer came in and warned me about jay walking. There really wasn’t that much car traffic.”

“Was that officer Dan?” Mary asked

“I think that was his name. He even bought me a cup of coffee.”

“Yes. That would be Officer Dan Kane, he has a habit of using his badge to meet pretty women.” Mary said. And Janean blushed at the warning and complement.

Darlene appeared to be a volcano verging on eruption: all smiles, pleasantries, but there was something bigger on her mind.  “Do you read manga books?” She blushed, “I do enjoy reading general fiction, but it’s fun to break away and read something that’s just for fun, entertaining.” She wasn’t going to let Janean get away without giving her the full inquisition. The young woman took a breath. “Will you buy graphic novels for the library? I’ve been making a list.” She glanced at her mother, “And newer fiction authors as well. Miss Chambers doesn’t care for any author that hasn’t been dead for fifty years or more.” Mary put her hand on her daughter’s.

“That’s enough dear. Give Ms. Clark a chance to finish her meal.”

Darlene suppressed a smile, sat up and blurted, “When are you going to ask?” Mary dabbed at her mouth and gave her daughter a well deserved frown. Darlene eased back into her chair. Janean took this in, aware something was simmering between the two. Mike was not in the know, or tried to feign a lack of concern.

Mary cleared her throat, elbows on the table she shot daggers at Darlene, leaned toward Janean and spoke in a near whisper, “Darlene is going to expose me any minute. To take control of the situation,” She glanced back at her daughter, “Will you accept the job? We offer it to you, warts and all. As you can see, Darlene, the self appointed representative of the teen populations, wants you to start working tomorrow. I am more patient, a month or a month and a half would be fine.”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Darlene was saying in the background.

Janean cringed, she was faced with disappointing Darlene or cutting her ties with family and friends. There was no gypsy blood in the Clark family, they settled down and stayed in one place. In the 1880s her great-grandparents moved from Long Island to the Village. It was the cause of great chaos amongst family and friends. How could anyone conceive of moving to the city, and on the far west side of that strange island.

With knife and fork in hand, Janean moved the remains on her plate from side to side, anything to avoid the pleading looks that were coming from Darlene, they were difficult to ignore. I’ll ask for time to think it over. Tomorrow after I leave town, I’ll call to let them know I can’t accept the offer. She directed her eyes deeper, staring at pattern on her plate, she was being a coward and she knew it. With determination she sat as tall as she could, I have to be strong, I will not cave in. I’ll let them down easy. Then the word burbled between her lips, “Yes.” What! Who said that? Her head twisted, her eyes taking in the room, looking for the culprit.

Darlene’s eyes were opened wide. “Mom! She’s going to do it. She’s going to be our librarian.”

The words, Darlene’s and her own reverberated inside her head. She wanted to duck, to disown that three letter word. How could I? Why would I say yes? A chill wave swept over her body. What have I done? That was me. I said yes. She forced a smile, her hands began to shake, she wiped beads of sweat from her quivering upper lip. I think I’m going to be sick.

CHAPTER 4

Miss Chambers walked down the hallway, from her office to the staff meeting. She threw her shoulders back and tilted her chin high. An upstart from Boston or this librarian from New York would not be the undoing of her family heritage. Somerset would not exist without the spirit and backbone of the Chambers family. They were not the folk that would allow their power or authority to be diminished. I’m not finished with Mrs. Smart or this silly woman from New York City.

Miss Chambers adjusted her suit jacket, stretched to her full height and entered the room. The staff was certain to have heard, Somerset, the small town that it was. Secrets didn’t remain hidden long. She was unnerved by the faces she met. She could hardly blame them. The Somerset library was founded on strong principles that she and her staff would not compromise. They could look back upon generation after generation of satisfied library users. All this modernism. Nothing more than corruption. She looked to Morrissey, no computer could ever replace her painstaking attention to detail. Each and every card was placed into the card catalog with the utmost thought and consideration. She then glanced to Miss Bennett who spent hours cataloging each book added to the library shelves. Computers, the Internet, were words that evoked a shudder within the Director. She would never, in her lifetime, allow the evils of technology to debase her library.

All through the night Miss Chambers had imagined and re-imagined the comments she would have to make. She must be strong. I can not be seen as a puppet of the library board of directors. In her knowledge of family history she could not think of a single Chambers that was treated with such ignominy. She motioned for her employees to sit. She would stand. She wanted to tower over them, lessening her feeling of smallness.

“I have hired…” Miss Chambers began with a croak, she coughed. Biting her lower lip, she continued, “A librarian, for those…” She couldn’t say it. They, that age group had been banned for many years. Banned physically and from library vocabulary. They knew it was coming, they had been prepared, but when Miss Chambers spoke the word teenagers, there was a collective gasp.

Chambers caved in. With no sleep, and the stress of this meeting, gravity and fatigue forced her into a chair. She was then pelted with questions, most were inconsequential until…

“Is she from Camden?”

“Is she from Bangor?”

“Surely she is a Mainer?”

Chambers straightened, flinging her arms in the air, she appeared to be a seagull coming in for a rough landing. “Enough of your guessing. She is from…New York. Not even small town New York. That city, full of hell and damnation.” Then there was a synchronized gasp, Morrissey collapsed into a chair. “New York.” She whimpered. “Nitro, get me my nitroglycerin.” It was a murmur. Miss Bennett checked where she thought a pulse would be felt.

“She is as cold as ice, and I don’t feel any pulse at all.”

“911, someone call 911.”

“She hasn’t begun work and already she is inflicting her evil upon us.” Chambers stood off to the side, shaking her head in amazement at her demoralized staff. “I have given my life to this library, my family has supported this town for hundreds of years…and this is how we are reimbursed.” She spoke to her staff flummoxed by the incursion of the 21^st century.

***

Janean, the New Yorker, knew all about mass transportation. She had the Manhattan subway and bus routes memorized, traveling through the city was second nature to her. However, in the city, people kept to themselves. Social interaction, not that it was illegal, just didn’t happen. Everyone had their space, at times limited, but the space was to be honored and not violated with personal conversation. Everyone had a definite goal, get to work, do the shopping, visit Aunt Millie over in Queens.

Janean could feel the umbilical cord being stretched, soon to snap. She was on a bus taking her through the northern reaches of the city out into the rural counties to the north. She envisioned the map, New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts,  New Hampshire and Maine. All that distance. Her eyes were taking in the rolling, grass covered hills and the thickening forests. This is not my Village.

She was jolted from the picturesque countryside to a photograph waving inches from her nose. “This is my newest Grandson, Henry, isn’t he the most beautiful.” Janean was startled, she edged away from the grandma sitting next to her. She was a sweet lady in appearance, but here in the bus, it was unexpected. Well, unexpected for Janean. She looked down the aisle, she noted others conversing, some laughing, they couldn’t all be related. She leaned over to look at the picture being extended to her.

“Yes, he is a beautiful baby. And Henry is such strong name.” The proud grandmother, Emily, spent her time knitting and telling of her children and grandchildren. There was not a black sheep in the lot, she beamed with pride. Janean couldn’t help herself, she tried to suppress a yawn, useless, she was then pulled into a deep sleep.

"May I sit here Ma'am?" Janean eyes flashed open, she looked up at a cowboy.

“Where is Grandma Emily?” She asked from her groggy state of mind. Had she left during her bottomless slumber?. Tex, the cowboy, was tall, lean, with faded jeans and sheep skin jacket. Oh, and his wide brimmed Stetson. He tipped his head and touched the brim with his finger tips. She gave herself a shake. This has got to be a dream. This guy looks like he just stepped off the big screen. She looked out the bus window to make sure where she was…still New York State…someplace.

"Uh...sure.” Turning back to him, she moved her magazines and paperback. He sat. She swooned. Maybe not a swoon, but she had difficulty closing her mouth and taking her eyes off his baby blues and the thatch of blond hanging across his brow. He wedged his six-foot-plus frame into the seat, she inhaled his scent, pure man, no cosmetic fragrances.

“So where do you do your cowboying?” Janean asked.

“Up yonder.” He nodded. “Vermont.”

“I just don’t envision much cattle herding and branding up yonder.” His drawl gave yonder a much better sound than Janean’s. “What sort of cattle ranches do they have in Vermont?”

He smiled. “You got me.” All of a sudden the cowboy was gone, no more drawl. “I’m preparing for a part in a community theater production, in Burlington. Clothes make the man they say. So…” He spread his arms wide, “I’m spending my time feeling the character, inside his duds.” His infectious laugh got Janean and all the surrounding passengers going. Even if they didn’t understand what it was about.

“You’re an actor, not a cowpoke?”

“Yes Ma’am.” He drawled, tipped his hat and smirked.

“You had me fooled, thought you were the real deal.” She shook her head. “And I think of myself as being a cynic. Or at least one that is not a pushover for a fancy story.”

He took a book from his jacket pocket, showing it to the librarian. She had seen it before, in the research room of the Main Branch, Ramon F. Adams, Western Words. “Took a lot of hunting, found this in a used book store in the City. Its helping. This and the clothes.” He grinned with pride. He leaned back and began reading.

After a spell, Tex stretched his boot shod feet into the aisle, pulling his Stetson low over his eyes. “Gi’me a holler when we get to Yuma.” He crossed his arms and began to slumber.

Janean took the Yuma reference to be his bus stop. 3:10 to Yuma seemed to be a standard in the modern western mythology. She leaned her head against her bundled jacket, also attempting to sleep. Images of cowboys, Lomax and her missing brother Peter swirled through her head. She dozed, off and on, over the next few hours. Through her sleep she sensed the bus stops, people coming and going. To which she remained semi-conscious.

Janean woke to her head bouncing off the bus window, truck lights flashing in her face. She rubbed at the kink in her neck, and glanced at her smartphone, ten-thirty, eight more hours to their next stop. “Evening Miss,” Came the deep voice from the seat earlier vacated by her cowboy friend. She was startled, and turned to face a huge man, consuming that seat, and overflowing into her space and the aisle. “Blake Gifford.” He held out a monster of a hand, his rolled sleeve displayed a series of tattoos: snakes, dragons, and voluptuous naked women, all entwined in an erotic dance up his arm and under his shirt. Gifford followed her eyes, “Got them in prison. Guys don’t have much to do, muscle building and tatts, ‘bout all.” There was no shame in his voice.

“Hunh!” Janean nodded, mesmerized by the intricacy and shading of colors.

He rippled his muscles causing the librarian to jerk away in surprise. He laughed, then leaned back in his seat, “Haven’t been this close to a woman in five years.” He closed his eyes.

Janean eased into her corner, she had never been this close to an ex-prisoner, well not that she had known. Seems like an okay guy. Hasn’t been around a woman for five years, that not so good, she got a chill and pulled her jacket up under her chin. She had mixed feelings about prisons and their failure to reform, most times she felt it was a training ground for further criminal activity. “My wife and kids are waiting for me, don’t plan on going back there.” His words came rumbling from his chest. His dark eyes looked at her with a smile. Hopefully this will be one who changes the direction of his life. She relaxed and closed her eyes.

The bus pulled off to a wide spot in the road. This was where Blake would get off. He stood in the aisle of the bus and gave Janean’s hand a firm pumping. Across the highway was a sign, Cranston 5 miles. “I’m going to walk it, see what’s changed, think about what I’ll say. The wife and young ones...” His voice trailed off.

She watched him jog across the highway, dodging an oncoming truck with blaring horn and flashing lights. The tall figure disappeared down the county lane into the morning fog. You’re a nice guy Blake. Don’t go back.

The highway wound further north, along the rock lined coast, through dark forests, skirting small, isolated fishing villages. This is my new life. No big cities. No family near at hand. That was the worst of it, loss of family and friends. Mary Smart and her daughter seemed to be welcoming. Hopefully they can make me a small part of their lives.

***

Janean hunted through the luggage piled at the side of the bus. She didn’t have much, some would be shipped later. She planned on investing in basic household items as needed. Her smartphone app showed the directions to Mrs. Carter’s house. Mary Smart, Janean wouldn’t survive without the lifeline thrown to her, she had provided the information and arranged the lease of Mrs. Carter’s apartment. Two bags in hand she started the walk up the hill. From her phone map and memories from her first visit she knew where she was going, not far.

CHAPTER 5

Her caramel eyes flicked open, she stared, "Where am I?" Janean’s muddled brain asked. The room was dark and cold, the light from her buzzing smart phone was the only note of familiarity. "Ah!" Now she remembered, the rush down to New York, pulling together the essentials, tearful goodbyes and the trip back. Mary Smart had arranged for the small apartment over a garage. She guaranteed the landlord would give her privacy and charge a reasonable rent. Her nose, the only body part exposed to the cold told her to go back to sleep until Summer arrived. She steeled every muscle in her body, and catapulted to the icy floor.

"Fluffy bunny slippers, a thick robe and several more layers of blankets, then maybe I'll survive." She ran to the kitchenette where she slapped at the switch on the coffeemaker. "Oh, to have a programmable machine. When I win the lotto, like that will happen." She then sprinted to the shower, anticipating the..."Yeow!" She screeched and jumped back from the icy spray. She cowered in the corner, rubbing blood back in to her traumatized body. Then she remembered, the locals called this Spring, she shuddered imagining what real cold would feel like. Steam began to come from the shower head, she only had time for a quick dunk, "Can't be late. Not on the first day."

***

Janean knew to dress in layers: Long sleeved pullover, cardigan sweater, and the thick thermal jacket. She wore an ankle length wool skirt, wool socks and boots, sensible, not stylish. "I have no intention of being cold." She spoke to herself, as she slipped on her wool cap and gloves. Out the door she went, prepared to take on the weather and her new job.

"The new job. Will my clothes fit in? Will I fit in?" A library is a library, pretty much everywhere you go. How difficult can this be, she reassured herself as she walked through Mrs. Carter's neighborhood and into the commercial district. She smiled and nodded at those few souls walking to work or out for an early morning shopping. Glancing in windows she observed early risers having a java jolt at the Higher Grounds, Mary Smart's coffee house. Passing the pharmacy, closed sign in the window, she gave hellos to gossiping customers waiting for entry.

***

Miss Chambers possessed every room she entered, having a dominating presence. Family genes seemed to play a role, that and the heritage of financial dominance in the community. Janean remembered the interview all too well. She knew that this, working for Miss Chambers was going to be a challenge. She must assert her place in the organization, not allow herself to be minimized and shunted to the margins. At the same time, she knew that she would have to tread lightly, it would be a high-wire balancing act, do not offend, do not cave in.

The Director, hands folded on her lap, the large mahogany desk separating the powerful from those without. Miss Chambers feigned a smile, “Well now, what brings you to Somerset?” Moving her glasses lower on her nose, she looked at the note on her desk, “Miss Clark?”

“I am your new Teen Librarian. I interviewed for the position, Mrs. Smart advised me that I was hired and I have submitted my paperwork with the city and they told me to report for work today.” Janean relaxed. Chambers could produce only a blank stare.

“Hmm! Is that so? It seems to have slipped my mind.” She tapped her pen on her blotter. Janean remembered seeing blotters in old movies and reading of them in noir murder mysteries. The fountain pen and ink well to the side fit the mid twentieth century decor of the office as well. She was beginning to think that the computers she hoped for, in fact were not camouflaged. They were nonexistent. "It would seem that I am not prepared for you at this moment." Her eyes played from one corner of the office to the other. "I will have to find something for you to do. Hopefully, we will sort this misunderstanding out. Miss Bennett my assistant will show you around the building. Why don't you find something to do in the adult reading area. You do know about adult books don't you?" Miss Chambers effort at humor. Janean took this as the nasty comment it was intended to be.

"But of course. I have always read a wide variety of literature, one must strive to be open, and accepting of new thoughts and ideas." Such as entering the computer age, Janean, so wanted to say. "I will find my way to the reading room."

***

The Somerset library was impressive, not so much in size, but the quality of construction. Dark walnut paneling covered every wall, ceiling high windows filled the rooms with light, and over sized fireplaces in each room provided a homey feel. To one side of the public area was the adult reading room and to the other was the children's room. Between the two was a door marked, Basement: Local History Collection. Can't wait to see where they are going to tuck me away. The offices were to the back. She wandered into the adult area, surveying the books, taking a few off the shelves. Hmm. One, Modern Psychology, She blew dust from the top edge of the tome. Not very modern. She sighed, what Have I gotten myself into.

"Miss Clark." Janean jumped as she was addressed from behind. The Assistant Library Director, Miss Bennett extended her hand. "Welcome to Somerset." There was a chill in her voice. Bennett appeared to be a somewhat younger clone of Miss Chambers. A bit taller than Janean, the young librarian looked up to an austere face. Chambers’ assistant wore a black jacket and matching skirt, with white blouse and thick heels. “Come with me Bennett commanded.

Bennett led the way into the library workrooms, the clack-clack of typewriters resounded off the walls. Catalogers typed out catalog cards. Clerks typed out book cards and book pockets. Lists of new books were typed and proudly copied with a mimeograph machine. Miss Dorsett’s blue stained hands attested to her operation of the antique device. And carbon paper was seemingly used everywhere. Janean was getting dizzy. She felt as if she had stepped into an alternative dimension, eight or nine decades past. She thrust her hand into her cardigan, it’s there.! She held tight to her smartphone, not wanting it to be sucked into this anachronistic universe.

Janean was led back through the children’s and adult reading areas. As they passed the basement door, Janean asked about the local history collection. She had always harbored an interest in history. Bennett pursed her lips and her brow creased. “The collection is restricted. Only Miss Chambers can authorize access.”

During her tour of the building she had heard whispers. Miss Chambers was working on all of her Somerset connections, someone must be able to counter the hiring of this upstart from New York, City.

***

UPSTART HAS BEEN USED 4 TIMES AT THIS POINT

Miss Chambers stood over her new, unwanted librarian. The Director, shoulders back, chin raised high, her eyes assessed the attire of this big city upstart. Her pointed nose drifted from Janean's hair, to face and stopped at the cardigan sweater. "What is that?" Her right hand came up, the index finger probing the air. "What is that bulky, formless garment?"

Janean looked down at her sweater. The sweater that had been accepted by her supervisors in the Village. The sweater that she felt a cozy comfort wearing in cooler weather. "My cardigan?" Her hands held out, palms turned up, "Is there something wrong with my cardigan.” Janean was actually pleased by this response. Let the lady carry on about something minor. I'm sure that there is some, much more serious infraction I have committed that she could light upon.

Chambers was aghast. "I would ask you to apprise the clothing worn by my staff. Everyone, you will find wears a tailored jacket and skirt." The director said. Yes, the Miss Marple, tweed and mothball look and smell. Janean nodded her understanding. But she had no intention of replicating Grandma Clark's wardrobe. The gaze fell to the skirt, no complaint. But the boots, received immediate comment. "We are not loggers, we are librarians. You do not come into my library wearing boots fit for the woods." Chambers emitted a deep sigh and turned toward her office. "Young people have no sense of fashion." Yeah, like I came to Maine to get fashion advice.

 Janean, a broad smile on her face, sat at her office desk. Let the battle begin. She was a peaceful person at heart, but, if this is what Chambers wants, this is what she is going to get. She jotted down some quick notes and stuffed the paper in her sweater pocket.

***

“But you didn’t make an appointment.” Janean informed. Ethan Taylor responded with a smarmy smile.

“Miss Chambers said I could come any time.” Again the uctious smile. “She indicated that you never had any work to do.”

Janean knew she was being set up by Chambers, and Ethan Taylor was glad that he could be a part of the new librarian’s public humiliation. His article would be just as rude and abrasive as he was in person.

And he so wanted to humiliate this New Yorker. A native of Maine and educated in Boston, he subscribed to unfriendly rivalry with the Big Apple.

She  knew that she was going to lose this first round with Taylor. She pointed to the guest chair in her office. “Why don’t you sit there Mr. Taylor.”

Ethan Taylor wore a suite, not many men in Somerset worked all dressed up. Fishing, logging, and farming did not call for white, buttoned down shirt, college tie, pinstriped jacket and slacks and highly polished black wing tips. She tried to envision him plodding through a muddy field interviewing a farmer. When Mary Smart heard of the interview, she warned her friend of the man's prickly personality. This was reported along with a mini-biography: Well-to-do family, top prep school and college, worked for the Boston Times. Then things fell apart. His investigative journalism took him to the underside of city politics, corruption in the letting of contracts and payoffs to city inspectors. His ego ran far ahead of his facts, his pen just couldn't stop fantasizing and at nights he dreamed of his Pulitzer Prize. His series of articles were rushed to the press and just as rapidly the paper was inundated, with lawsuits. Taylor was on to something, he just didn't have the facts to back up his story. The paper endured a bloodletting in advertising. The editorial staff withered and Ethan Taylor saw his once inflated career implode. “Be careful with him he can be nasty,” Mary had advised. “He is bitter that no paper would hire him but the Somerset Press." Her friend further warned. "He still has a habit of manufacturing stories with little or no facts to back them up."

"You're from New York, why have you come up here, career not going well, pilfering change from the fine drawer?" Taylor smiled, a broad false smile, confident he had placed her off balance. He leaned back in the wooden chair, notebook and pen in hand.

"Why, I felt it was a point in my career to breakaway, see how librarianship is practiced in rural America. I have often thought of working and living in a small town. I have already made acquaintances, people are very accepting, contrary to image of the intransigent, unfriendly New Englander." She thought of her co-workers and Miss Chambers, they would definitely fit the mold. The reporter's pen scratched out what looked to be shorthand. He seemed to record much more than she had said. God, is he doing it already, putting words in my mouth. His head twisted backward taking in the shelving and the few elderly ladies browsing in the aisles.

"They don't look to be teenagers, not what I think of as teens." Again he lavished Janean with his false smile. His pen hovered for a response.

Janean looked at the screen of her smartphone, “11:55 p.m.” she said, then looked up to Taylor, “School won’t be out for a few hours.” She attempted to be civil, she knew that he was needling her.

He pulled at his ear lobe, thinking profound thoughts. “And what is it exactly that you do, and why was it necessary to go all the way to New York to hire a librarian.” Librarian was spoken with a tone slightly less than contempt.

She was beginning to develop a red haze at the front of her face, along with the heat of anger. This was not good. Only a few times had this happened before, nothing positive was going to result from this if she lost control. She exhaled, hands folded in her lap, she thought of the waves rolling ashore at Atlantic City, where her family would spend several weeks during the Summer months. For hours she would watch the surf breaking ashore in a never ending cycle. It was a soothing, mind relaxing exercise. Taylor coughed, “My question.”

“Ah, I’ll answer the second half of your question first.” She knew this is what he was after. Not that she had any intention of telling him the truth. She felt guilt, no one could know the truth. “I was the best. I understand that there were many applications reviewed and quite a number were interviewed. Miss Chambers our library director is quite demanding, she would not hire just anyone.” Janean smiled. She enjoyed the moment, throwing the responsibility at the boss, along with unwarranted praise. Taylor wrote, unhappy with a quote that could not be twisted. He wouldn’t do anything to catch the ire of Somerset's most prominent citizen.

DO WE DO MORE WIOTH TEENS IN THIS CHAPTER

HOW DO WE DEAL WWITH CHAMBER4WS PROHIBIOTING FRO

***

It had been a tough day, the first day of work: new town, new staff and a hell of a new boss. Janean was rattled. She had never worked with people that were so clueless as to how a modern library should operate. And cold, they had no intention of giving her a warm welcome, a cold shoulder only. New York was structured, professional. Miss Chambers’ library was a joke.

The nuclear option was her only recourse. She needed to unwind with comfort food. She had seen the Burger Barn on the way to work. She thought at the time, a sinful pleasure to be taken as a treat, some time in the future. Not so. She needed to shoot up some fries and a greasy burger, now! Oh, and washed down with a thick chocolate shake. Going inside she ordered and collapsed into a booth spreading before her the sumptuous feast, she inhaled the aroma of low fiber, high fat and hollow calories. Just today, she promised herself. Tomorrow I will live amongst the righteous once  again.

She took a huge bite from the hamburger, working her jaw muscles, and savoring the many flavors provided. Then she slowed her pace. She wanted this to last, wash some of the pain of the day from her mind. She looked around the diner: young couples, a businessman, probably on the road making sales calls and a family, mom, dad and the kids. Then directly across from her there was a young fellow. She guessed a high school student. He was sucking on a coke and finishing off his fries, his feet were resting on a skate board that he rolled back and forth. She glanced away and then back, he gave her a shy smile. She returned the smile and motioned, come over here.

He stood , threw the fries into his sack, gave his board a slight shove sending it to Janean’s booth. “This isn’t a pick-up, I’m the new librarian here in Somerset. I specialize in working with teens. One of the things I need to do is understand local kids and their needs, what they read, subjects they are interested in. Oh, and my name is Janean Clark.” She held out her hand, he wiped his on his shirt and gave her a tentative shake.

“Grunge.” Was his hoarse response. She knew this would be difficult for him, young kids aren’t used to being spoken to in public with adults. Unless it was a cop complaining about skateboarding on a sidewalk.

“Why don’t you relax, work on your fries and drink I just have a few questions.” She shoved her fries to the middle of the table, “Take some of mine when your finished with yours.”

He liked her, he smiled, “Thanks, mine’ll be enough.”

“So Grunge, is that right,” she asked and he nodded yes, ”Are you a high school student.” He nodded again. She giggled, she knew this was going to be  a dumb question but asked anyway, “Do you use the town library?” He shook his head no, no self respecting kid would use that place, she interpreted. She smiled, hoping to encourage his honesty, “do you read?” From her experience many boys that were good readers would drop off the radar after fifth grade. Grunge had the look of a non-reader.

Grunge toyed with his soda straw, looked around the diner, he shrugged, and almost in a whisper, “Yeah, I like to read.” He did the same survey of the establishment, and moved closer to the librarian, “You can’t let anyone know. I got my reputation, and the guys. It wouldn’t be cool if they knew.” He nodded and leaned back in the booth.

She knew she couldn’t keep him much longer, she asked a few more questions then thanked him for his assistance. “This is important for all the young people here in Somerset. Reading is important for entertainment as well as ongoing education.” She was hoping she didn’t sound too preachy. “Why don’t you come by the library, bring the guys. We can talk over where you would like to see teen services go.”

***

Upstart—replacements

Johnny-come-lately

Interloper

Vagabond

“Mary, you said I could call if I had questions or needed support.” Janean whispered into her cell phone. She  had finished her sinful dinner, now sitting in a rear booth of the Burger Barn, she was phoning Mary Smart. “Is this a bad time?”

“No. It’s fine. Now is fine.” Mary lied. Dishes had not been cleared from the table, Darlene needed help with a sewing project and she would have to return to Higher Grounds tonight to work on bookkeeping.

Janean did her best to keep her emotions under control. Chambers had been unbearable. Bennett was cold as an ice berg and to the remainder of the staff she didn’t exist. The new librarian related the day’s misery. “Oh, I did meet a nice boy here at the hamburger hangout. Grunge…is his name, high school student. I invited him and any friends he can scour up to visit the library.”

Mary tried to listen to the newcomer, the stress of her own household was making a sympathetic response difficult. “I think I’ve heard Darlene mention the boys name, something of a loaner…but nice. Glad you had at least one positive experience for the day. But, you do sound stressed. You might want to consider an exercise class, it is held at the Community Center, aerobics and stretching. Nothing like exercise to get your mind off stressors.”  If only I could work that into my schedule. Mary  made a mental survey of her less than perfect life.

CHAPTER 6

Sleep had eluded Janean. The night had been filled with monsters and demons, all possessing the face of the library director. Janean had been chased through villages, up mountain peaks and down into dark caverns. Clothes thrown on, she sat at her dining table relying upon a strong, hot cup of coffee to get her through the day. The black liquid burned her lips as she sipped. Tap. Tap. The sound came from the front door. She turned and stared, eyes squinting, brow creased. Through the windows she could only see darkness. Who would be tapping, tapping at my chamber door. She laughed at herself. She gathered her strength and nerve, approached the door, and pulled it open. A raven did not fly into her apartment, but Mrs. Carter did step across the sill into her room.

The landlady held out the Somerset Press, her head shaking. “He was not nice to you. He was mean and spiteful.” Janean slammed the door closed. Shoulders slumped.

“Please come in Mrs. Carter.” Janean led the way. “Damn! Men!” She hissed, hoping her expletive did not offend. Ethan Taylor has done me dirty. “Men!”

Janean poured a cup of coffee for Mrs. Carter. The librarian sat, hands gripping either edge of the paper, reading but not comprehending how this minuscule mind felt it necessary to belittle her. “What did I do. How do I deserve this sort of treatment. There isn’t a verifiable fact. Not a word he quotes came from me.” A cynical laugh burst from between her lips. “The man has an over active imagination.”

Mrs. Carter patted her hand. “You are not the first person he has done this to. And unfortunately you will not be the last. The weasel of an editor refuses to put a muzzle on the nasty little whelp.” She chuckled. “Look on the bright side, he didn’t accuse you of murder.” The both laughed over that one.

Janean’s landlady covered her mouth and yawned. “I just don’t sleep much. A few hours here and there.” She looked around the room. “I don’t see a clock anywhere. How do you keep track of time?”

Janean held up her phone. “This.” She said.

“But, I thought that was just a phone. You young people amaze me with all your electronic gadgets. I’ll never understand it all.”

Janean stood, taking the phone to Mrs. Carter to show her all the features.

After several minutes of explanation, her landlady was flummoxed with information overload. “My. My. My. It is all too much for me.” She shook her head in amazement. Then she smiled. “I want you to come downstairs before you leave. I want to show you something.”

***

Janean sat on Mrs. Carter’s couch. “You really should wear a wristwatch. It makes a person look professional. Mr. Carter, even if he was only a clerk at the bank, always wore his watch. He said that he felt just as important as Mr. Malloy the banker.” She smiled, thinking of Mr. Carter and his watch.

Janine was happy with her smartphone, what would she do with a wristwatch. Yes, in a bygone era, prior to the invention of personal electronic devices, such as her phone, she had actually worn a watch. But it couldn’t be used to search the Internet, send emails, or used as a navigational aid, and of course talking over the airwaves. She would placate her landlady and put it on. But under no circumstances was she going to invest in or wear such an archaic mechanism.

Mrs. Carter opened the box the watch came in. Inside was a large man’s wristwatch. It must weigh a ton. Janean thought. Removing the watch the older woman smiled, and slipped the object onto Janean wrist.

There it was, she turned and twisted her wrist, getting a feel for the foreign object. Not bad. Not as bad as I thought it would feel. It actually looks okay, a bit heavy, but as Mr. Carter said, it gives a person a feel of importance. She felt as if she was standing an inch or two taller. That’s enough. She slipped it off and handed it back to Mrs. Carter.

“No! No! No!” Mrs. Carter was insisting. “Put it back on. Try it for a few days and it will be a part of you. You’ll see. And it does make you look professional.

Janean was skeptical. She felt the phone in her sweater. How would I ever make any use of a watch? The older woman gave Janean her best look of concern (?). “Okay Mrs. Carter, I’ll give it a try. See if I can’t get used to it.

Mrs. Carter broke into a smile. “See. I knew you would understand. And you use it as long as you need it.”

I don’t think that will be very long. It felt so foreign to her body. I don’t think I can ever adjust to this. She gave her wrist a jiggle. And it’s too loose.

***

The nose of the skateboard skimmed along, inches above the sidewalk, Grunge the navigator shot across the curb into Main Street traffic, avoiding collisions with irate soccer moms and cautious seniors. There was the squealing of brakes and shouted epithets from startled drivers. At the opposite curb he jumped his board high in the air, spun, and gave a flourish of the hand and a bow as he landed for the benefit of the not so amused motorists.

“Grunge!” Flyman called out, “Cool spin, and did you see that old broad flip you off. Thought she was going to have one of those stroke things.” He snorted as he laughed.

Grunge hit the tail of his board with his foot, flipped it in the air, caught it with one hand and swiped at the hair hanging in his face. “That was Mrs. Egan, lives in the trailer park, I'll hear about it from my Mom tonight.”

“Not so cool dude.” Flyman offered. “Hey, there's Tops.”

Tops approached, and leaned back on his board bringing it to a stop, “What's going Dudes?” He mumbled, he was not a man of many words. "The cops chased me off Oak Street, The big guy.”

“Officer Dan, he’s okay, didn’t write you up did he. I heard he knew how to raise hell in his day. He knows what it’s like,” Grunge informed. “That new librarian starts work today. I talked to her at the Burger Barn the other night, kinda cute for a librarian I guess, lot nicer than those old ladies. They been working there so long they think they own the place. Come on.” He shot out with his board, “Let’s go see what she’s doing over there, might be cool.” Flyman and Tops shrugged and followed.

They shouted, jumped and spun their way across town to the old Carnegie building. Stopping at the front, they eyed the eight steps leading up to the entrance. “What do you think, can we do it” Grunge asked. Tops and Flyman thought it over looked out to the street and down the sidewalk, .“Don’t see that Officer Dan guy,” Was Flyman’s thought on the subject.

“Dude, don’t be such a weenie.” Tops didn’t care about cops; he had a reputation to maintain.

They spread their legs wide on the boards and began a much practiced walk up the steps, shifting, twisting, and lifting the nose, then the tail. It would have been quicker walking, but this demonstrated to the world who they were, and what they could do.

***

Miss Morrissey was behind the counter sorting catalog cards. She took great pride in her work, for over sixty years she interfiled the typed cards into the libraries catalog. Some would have considered such an assignment, "cruel and unusual punishment.” The frail senior made of it an art form, not to mention it gave her lifetime job security. No other staff member could be convinced to take on the mind deadening occupation. Just as she was considering the placement of her next card, the broad oak paneled door was flung open. Standing in the doorway, backlit by the afternoon sun were three imposing silhouettes. Skate boards in hand, the gladiator-like figures stepped forward. Morrissey’s birdlike body shook, her quivering hands went to her face. ”They’re here, oh my God they're here!” A trilling gasp, barley a whisper. She then folded her hands across her chest, as if preparing for the end. Then she forced a shrill warning of dread. “Those people! There here.” Her piercing words fractured the sacrosanct quiet of the reading room. Gray haired seniors turned, heads jerked up, the vision they saw was appalling.

”Were here for the young librarian,” Tops proclaimed, his voice rumbling in his chest.

“Yeah dude, that cute one.” Grunge added, giving a melodramatic effect.

Morrissey’s body verged on shaking itself to pieces, her blood-drained lips formed words but nothing came out. At last she gained control of her mouth. “Rape! Murder!” She screamed. Miss Morrissey ran from the counter, past the parting boarders, screaming her way out the front door. At the top step, in front of Somerset’s venerable library the octogenarian shouted, “Murder! Help! Crazed murderers!”

***

Miss Chambers pounced on Janean, mouth contorted, she spat out, "Those miserable urchins have no place in my library. They are a mockery to this institution and the pursuit of knowledge." Her hand swung into the air, her fore finger pointing to the heavens in the best Shakespearean style. Each sartorial peroration punctuated with another and higher thrust of the finger. The young librarian was concerned that the director might dislocate her shoulder. Red of face the older woman pirouetted from the room. Now what do I do. They hired me to serve the teens but she won't allow them in the building. Janean took refuge at her desk. Breath deep, relax. Breath deep, relax. Her mantra didn't work. Her blood pressure remained in the stratosphere, and ice picks were probing at her temples. Will Mom and Dad take me back, have they rented out my room. Nah, neither one could handle a stranger under foot.

She took her phone from her cardigan and looked at it, how is this going to solve anything she asked herself. Punching out text, pressing the send button, she sighed. I'm weak, I'm spineless. I should just go in there and let her have it, a full broadside. Nope, that ain't me. Janean looked at the text.

Janean: Mary I need to talk. I'm desperate.

Mary is going to be sorry she ever hired me. Once, twice a day I'll be in her shop begging, maybe even crying for advice, moral support or political muscle. Chambers is so entrenched, I can't do combat with her, we’re not on the same playing field.

Mary: Come by at five, you can watch me count money.

Janean sighed. What a wuss I am!

***

These seems are a bit disjointed—need better transitions—followup on the email to mary

Mary had encouraged Janean to attend the exercise class. They were held in the old high school gym, converted to a community center. She had stood outside the library, her feet didn’t want to go anywhere near an exercise class. Not today. Not after another tough day jousting with Miss Chambers. She could only think of the Burger Barn. Ripping into a thick bun. Chomp! Chomp! Chomp! Take that Chambers!

But, her mental processes got the better of her. Perspiration coursed down her face, as her knees pumped high in the air. Directions were barked out. Mary had forgotten to mention that her favorite cop, Dan Kane would be instructing the class. Boot-camp style. Squats, pushups, and crunches, he didn’t let up. The cycle repeated and repeated. She felt every muscle tear and burn. She had thought that she was in shape, looking around she saw soccer moms and desk jockeys unfazed. The Drill Instructor was out to kill her; she was going to die, she just knew it.

Her chest heaved, each breath felt as if her rib cage was going to explode. Bending over, hands on knees, she attempted to get her breath and control her shaking muscles. She was going to murder this guy, somehow, there had to be retribution. And Mary, how could she have put her on a course that could only end at the state prison, would it be life for doing in an officer of the law.

“Good work Clark,” Kane stood over her, his massive frame blocking out the lights of the room, she couldn’t see his malicious grin. “Couple months, I’ll make you the man you never thought you could be.” The walls vibrated as he laughed.

Gasping for air, she could only shake her head at his infantile attempt at humor.

“Okay people, back here night after tomorrow,” He shouted to his departing troops.

Janean straitened, breaths slowing to a gentle chug, “I’ll be here,” She forced out, “Takes more than a little exercise to kill me.”

Kane snorted and turned, leading the way out of the gym. She was going to die, she just knew it. In the middle of the night she would be hit my the big one. A massive cardiac arrest, ending a life too soon. All because of this overgrown oaf.

Kane slapped the light off as they left the room. At that moment Janean’s feet became entangled in a loose shoe lace. Catapulted forward she hit the good officer in mid-back, they both hit the floor, well Officer Dan hit the floor, the librarian landed atop him. “Good God woman, what is your problem,” The detective dislodged himself from his student.

“I seemed to have tripped,” Raking hair away from her eyes; she began tying the offending laces.

Sitting on the floor next to her he observed her technique with displeasure, and a shake of his head. “No wonder they come undone. You need to double lace them, here I’ll show you.” Up on his knees he attempted to take the laces from Janean, she slapped his hands away.

“I can do it I’m not a baby, and you are not my Mother.” She went about retying the laces, just as her mother had shown her, just as she had done for years.

Kane stood over her, arms crossed, brow creased, mystified by her stubbornness, and failure to heed his sage advice.

Janean looked way up at the hulk above, she put one hand on the floor and began pushing herself up, her leg muscles didn’t cooperate, they had stiffened to rods of steel. The smile above broadened. “What exactly is so funny,” She demanded.

“You should have stretched and cooled down after the session,” Kane extended his hand to her.

Janean glared at the offered paw, a sneer twisted her mouth. How dare he. I would rather sit here and die, than accept his patronizing assistance. She glanced up and down the hall, empty. And now she was beginning to feel cramping in her calves. She had no option, forcing a smile she pulled at his hand, he lifted her to her feet at which point she screamed. The cramp had a lock on her right leg

Kane swooped the patient off the floor, depositing her on a nearby hard, cold table “Ahh! Eee!” Janean attempted to stretch, making the cramp all the worse. The over-sized cop began massaging the muscle. For the size of the man, the hands moved in a slow, soothing rhythm.

“Better?” His voice rumbled. His eyes surveyed her body, from the nice calf to the dark brown eyes, a deep brown that one would want to be submerged in. The thick brown hair wasn’t bad either.

“Yes. I’m sure that is enough.” She said, jolting him back to reality.

“Huh?” He started, God, how long was I staring at that face. He rubbed at his ear. His mother had frequently flicked the tip of his ear when she found him day dreaming.

“Enough!” It was close to a demand. Janean had no intention of showering the man with expressions of gratitude “Thanks. It’s better.” She slipped down to the floor, walking away at a measured pace, working further stiffness from the muscles.

“Hunf,” Kane grunted, he knew a tough broad when he saw one. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her as she limped away, those well formed calf muscles. He was a sucker for nice legs.

***

CHAPTER 7

"What time is it?" Janean’s groggy voice croaked, she reached into the dark where her phone was docked. "Five-thirty." She moaned as she stared at the screen. One, if she was lucky two hours of sleep. This isn't going to work. I can't face Chambers and her evil cohort. Not like this. Her eyes bored into the darkness to where the ceiling would be. Stressed induced insomnia, and I'm getting it bad. She crawled out of bed, damn the cold, I'm not going to sleep, I'll go into battle armored with caffeine. In the kitchen she powered-up the coffee maker and collapsed into her dinette chair, slumped to the table, she took in her life. Not a pretty sight. What made me think I Could pull this off. I'm a duck out of water. The city kid out in the country. My only experience with wild outdoors was a day at Central Park. Chambers and her growling pack are ready to devour me.

The coffee maker let her know it was brewed, taking her steaming mug to the bathroom she surveyed her disheveled self in the mirror. Her lustrous brown hair seemed dulled, and most definitely was a nest of tangles. “Get with it Janean,” she spoke, taking a pick from the counter she began to unsnarl her hair.

***

“Mrs. Lange,” Janean glanced behind the young mother. “You don’t have Timmy with you today?” Bonnie Lange was a regular and her son was a wild child. His antics were legend, had he been a teen his behavior would not have been accepted.

Mrs. Lange sighed, “I need a break from that son of mine. I also need information, lots of information on raising the willful child.” She glanced at the circulation desk where Miss Dorsett was sorting date due cards. She placed her hand on Janean’s and whispered, “I’m so glad that you are here, these old ladies don’t understand…real people, everyday problems.”

Janean felt uncomfortable. She understood Mrs. Lange’s concerns, concerns that she held, but the librarian couldn’t voice a position unsupportive of the other staff members. Yeah like they really support me. Giving Mrs. Lange a smile, “If we go in the stacks I will find what you need.” Mrs. Lange followed, Janean took out her smart phone. She had bookmarked libraries with online catalogs and periodical indexes, most libraries in New England. She browsed through a series of subject headings, then began pulling down books, and allowing her patron to determine if the items applied to Timmy the untamed. “And now we should look at our magazines to see if we have more to offer.” Going to the magazine rack Janean again consulted the online databases and extracted items for Mrs. Lange.

Loaded down with books and magazines, the harried mother sat at a reading table sorting through her trove of information.

***

"She's doing it again. I'm not sure what it is, but it doesn't seem right." Bennett was incensed. Chambers looked up from her office desk, pursing her lips.

"I assume you are speaking of Miss Clark. And what exactly is she doing now." The director heaved a sigh.

Bennett crossed her arms, "Mrs. Lange asked her a question, the two of them went into the stacks. They came back with armfuls of books and then they went to the periodical shelves, again retrieving numerous items. Not once did she consult the card catalog or Readers Guide to Periodical Literature." Bennett shook her head, tsking. "I'll tell you she is up to no good. She is always looking at that portable phone of hers. Not to mention she is making the remaining staff appear inefficient. I have talked to the others, they are very upset with her and her ways."

Chambers studied her nails. “And Mrs. Lange. How did Mrs. Lange respond to this service.”

“The lady was overjoyed. She had the greatest praise for our new librarian.”

“And?”

“Miss Dorsett was beside herself.” Bennett fussed at a thread on her sleeve. “We all know how she enjoys serving her patrons. Tears came to her eyes as Mrs. Lange extolled Clark’s efforts. It just isn’t right. She is disruptive of our ways.”

Chambers waved Bennett to a chair, adjusting herself into her clothes. “We all need to begin recording her violations of library policies, and every one of her acts of insubordination. This will be the only way in which she will be terminated.” Her pen tapped on her desk blotter. “And terminated she must be.”

***

Somerset Police Chief Erasmus Adams had been riding Kane for days. “Interview the tree hugger and be done with it. Stop pissing around!” The Chief was getting mad. “If he’s got anything to do with those stalker notes, bring him in!” The Chief growled. The detective was feeling sandwiched, pressured from all sides. Dole is a nut case, but I can’t see him tormenting the old lady or being a fire bug.

Kane wound the SUV down a gravel road off the paved county route, between maples and oaks. Coming to a steep grade he met a Moose that just didn't want to move off the track, Kane pounded on the horn, after five minutes the monster freed the lane. Further along the road flattened out into a broad meadow.

Dole’s rustic cabin was built to the side of the meadow. He was made the butt of many jokes during the construction, all of which he carried out on his own. The house was his design, made from recycled materials and off the electric grid. He was on his porch writing in a yellow legal pad as the patrol car came to a stop. He kept to his composition as Kane exited his car and walked up to sit next to him.

Dole wrote, and Kane took in the meadow, in spring it would be filled with a riot of wildflowers, now it was all dried grass and brittle flower stalks. "Where have you been the past couple nights?" The detective asked. Dole continued his effort for a moment, then put the pen down.

"Here," He looked at the officer, "I spend most of my nights here. Sometimes I have meetings, and sometimes I actually go out and socialize. I've been here every night for the past five, six days." He picked up the pen and went back to the legal pad.

Kane nodded, "Got anyone to backup your activity for say...the past five nights."

Dole thought that over, "I Had some friends coming and going, they spent a few nights in the woods, and came in for meals." He continued writing. Kane observed his notations.

"You have a typewriter?" He asked, "I Know you submit letters to the editor, I've seen some of your articles in magazines, you must have a computer or typewriter?

"No computers here. They use too much energy. I have a manual typewriter, I've had it since college. You need to type something or just being inquisitive?" He scratched out a line, editing as he wrote.

"I have to take your machine in. The typewriter thing?" Who uses an antique like that. Kane took in the surrounding woods, homemade house, how can anyone live like this?

Dole shrugged. "Does this have to do with those notes to the library director. I didn't type them, I have nothing to be concerned with," He shook his head. Giving it some more thought, "I have some freelance work I need to complete...I have deadlines, how soon can I have it back?"

Kane pulled at his chin, "Next week. Maybe.”

Dole stood and went through the front door, returning with a large scuffed case. His hands ran over the distressed surface. Each scratch and divot seemed to have meaning for the environmentalist. "Take good care of it, that's my living there."

The case and machine were handed over to the detective. "It's safe with me," Kane assured as he took the prized possession, "Heavy little thing."

"It was built to last, everything today has but a few years,. and goes off to the landfill.

Kane nodded as he went down the steps. Always the landfill, all conversations have to come back to the landfill. They had more than one heated conversation concerning the environment. He put the cased typewriter  in the back seat, sat behind the wheel and pulled across the seatbelt. Kane jumped, something shot through the air, slamming against the windshield and bounced back at him. In his lap sat a piece of plastic from the belt retractor assembly, "Great!" he mumbled, the belt was limp across his lap. He attempted to pull it tight; it just hung like soggy spaghetti. He gave up, started the car, looked forward, Dole stood on the steps watching the case of the disposable retractor assembly. Kane offered an anemic wave as he reversed onto the drive, turned and made a speedy getaway. He threw the broken plastic onto the passenger seat, think Dole might be half right. Naw!

***

Darlene filed the order cards into a shoebox sized file. “Why did you become a librarian Miss Clark?” Darlene asked. The teen sat in a folding chair next to the librarian’s desk, file in her lap.

“Books! I have always loved reading, and enjoyed volunteering at the neighborhood library.” Janean went back to reading through book reviews. “Oh. And I also enjoy problem solving. Each reference question is a problem to be analyzed and solved. Not to mention I’m a bit of a show off…well maybe not show off, but I like displaying my skills.”

“Hmm.” Darlene leaned close to the librarian. She whispered. “I never thought of being a librarian until you came to Somerset.” She looked around the room. “The little old ladies here are not the sort of people to inspire a library career.” They both laughed, but not too loudly.

“You have time to decide your future Darlene. When you’re off at college you’ll see a variety of careers. Take your time. However, I think you would make an excellent librarian.”

Darlene went into her whisper mode again, “Are all libraries like this. Run by little old ladies. I don’t know that I have the stamina to work in a place like this.”

Janean chuckled. “No. Every library is different. I can’t imagine that there are many run quite like this.” Oh, Darlene, she wanted to say, Somerset probably is one of a kind. Idiosyncratic. That would describe Miss Chambers’ operation.       

***

Ian Dole sat in his truck, his thumbs beating out a tune on the steering wheel, it was not a happy tune. His eyes squinted at his wristwatch. He had come into town to see if the examination of his typewriter could be expedited. No! It had been launched into bureaucratic dark space. Its return voyage was of an indeterminate time and date.

He tried to think of everything and everybody but Kane. Anger must be avoided. Control. He had goals, the cop could not circumvent them. His hand shot to the key, turned over the engine, hit the gas, and spun the wheels, that he did not want to do. He inhaled, turned on to Main Street heading up the hill. He pulled to a stop in the library parking lot. A phone book, gotta get a phone book. He looked to the watch again, this will work, then stepped out, pushed the truck door closed and strode up the steps.

Inside, library quiet prevailed, Janean sat at her desk in a pool of light streaming down from the clerestory windows above. Darlene stood at the card catalog searching out titles. Dole’s boots reverberated on the wood floorboards as he crossed to the librarian.

 “Excuse me.” The deep voice startled Janean. Hard at work on library book orders, she had catalogs scattered on her desk, and stacks of forms, all with the  dreaded black carbon paper. She raised her eyes to take in the mountain of a man before her. “Ian Dole.” He extended his hand.

Ian Dole, we meet at last. Miss Chambers spoke with disdain of tree hugging, eco terrorist, and Ian Dole’s name got the greatest attention. He doesn’t look like the violent type. He actually looks civilized, even with the farmer outfit: coveralls, boots and the heavy jacket, she heard  it called a barn coat. The Director had prepared her for the bomb throwing anarchist look.

Janean took his hand, he gave a firm shake, not bone crushing. “Janean Clark.” Her hand waving around the room, “Librarian.”

“Read the paper.” He gave her a cynical smile. “Welcome to Somerset. Ethan Taylor wields a poisonous pen, as your article showed. What he said was uncalled for, I’m sure. But, you are not the first.”

"Somerset P.D. has confiscated my typewriter. They think it was used in the commission of a crime." He shook his head. "I need to rent a replacement quick, I have deadlines for several articles. Could I use a telephone directory?" He asked.

She reached down to a shelf behind her desk, handing the phone book to Dole.  He took the phone book to a nearby table, pulling out his notebook and pencil.

Janean stood, looked around the room. No enemies in sight, she pulled her phone from her sweater pocket and began pressing keys. With a look of triumph she went to stand next to Dole. "Here you go," she slid the smartphone in front of Dole, he eased away from it as if it were a snake.

"What's this?"

"A list of shops that you need to contact. There aren't many left, they are going the way of shoe repair and the dinosaurs." She regretted making light of the situation. She had heard that the demise of local businesses and craftsmen to the competition of big box stores and throwaway everything was a sore point with Dole.

"Thanks," he began writing out the information. "Is there more down here." He pointed to the bottom of the screen. She moved closer, bending down her hair brushed his face. She could sense that he was breathing in her Cologne. And she could feel the warmth of his body. Again she scanned the room, being caught with an electronic device and in a compromising position with Ian Dole would be a high crime and misdemeanor.

“Ms Clark!” Came the shout from across the room. Janean jumped at the sound of her name, Dole frowned. Janean turned to the  shambling teen, Flyman, dragging his skateboard behind. “I come to see one of those graphic novel things you talked about.” The librarian made the shush sign, finger over the lips. She didn’t need to have Chambers involved in her transaction, not with Dole here, the smart phone in use, a teen on the scene and graphic novels being discussed. Is there any library policy I haven’t violated in the last five minutes.

The boarder looked down at the phone, “Cool dude! One of those smart things.” Flyman enthused. “Gotta get one of them, problem, I don’t know many dudes with phones.” He looked at the screen, “What ya’ doin’.” Janean contemplated the question, murder, she was on a roll, why not.

She whispered, he might get the idea. “We are looking for typewriters, one Mr. Dole can rent.” Janean explained. Flyman, eyes squinting, brow furrowed.

“Didn’t think they made that stuff any more.” He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, “Only people I ever seen use ‘em are the old ladies back there.” He spoke of the library staff, their arthritic spines bent over mechanical devices produced in he middle of the past century. Catalog cards, forms and correspondence all pounded out on a primitive devices heavier than a Smart car. And God help the person required to make a copy, that required the use of carbon paper, surely the invention of a sadistic mind. Or perhaps the invention of the dry cleaning industry, nasty black goo spread from paper, to hands, to clothing.

“Ms Clark.” Dole asked. Janean forgot Dole had a question about the search.

“I’m sorry.” She said, and turned to Dole. Flyman snickered.

“Haven’t you heard that song, ‘Don’t Be Sorry, Be Safe.’” Flyman laughed, “It’s about…” Janean had a good idea what it was about. She waved the teen over to her desk, pulled the bottom drawer open.

“You can look through the books take two, okay, no more.” She patted his shoulder, shaking her head. She felt like a juggler, all these balls in the air, trying to take care of everyone and avoid the wrath of Miss Chambers.

Walking back to Dole she bent over his shoulder. She sensed the moment had passed for the both of them. "Here, I'll show you, "Press this here, it scrolls further down on the screen."

"I understand. Thanks." He scratched out more addresses and phone numbers. Janean went back to her desk, Dole followed a moment latter, slipped the phone over to her along with a sheet of yellow legal pad paper.

Janean’s index finger went down the notes Dole gave her. He stood back, giving her space. She looked up, “And the list? What is it you would like me to do?”

Dole did a quick scan of the room. “I need to borrow these books from another library.”

Janean went through the list again. “We might have some of these books here. I will need to check our collection. What we don’t own, I will then request through our network.”

He shook his head. “The library owns all of the titles.” He looked around again. “They are in the basement. Miss Chambers refuses to allow me down there.”

“But…”

“She doesn’t like my politics. She feels that I am a threat to the moral fiber of the community.” He shrugged. “If I go down there I’m sure to contaminate her books.”

“You don’t look radioactive to me.” She smiled, then noticed Miss Dorsett; hard at work on the checkout desk, but taking an interest in their conversation. Janean banished her smile, taking on a professional tone.

“Miss Chambers thinks otherwise.” Dole said.

Janean absently chewed on the end of her pen, “I’ll get on these right away.”

“I’m done Ms. Clark.” Darlene came to stand next to the librarian, placing the work on the desk. She looked up at Dole, many of the older girls in town did a lot of looking at the environmentalist. Returning her focus to Janean, “I have time. I could work some more.”

Ian turned, took two steps and came back to the desk, “I tend to get carried away with my concerns for the environment. Perhaps we could meet for coffee tomorrow afternoon. Talk. Miss Chambers will be out of town.” He smiled.

The librarian looked at her calendar, she flipped over several pages, all empty of any notations. “Hmm. I could take a break at three-thirty.”

“Higher Grounds at three-thirty then.” Dole nodded, turned and took his long steps across the floor and out the door.

“Ms. Clark, what was that about Miss Chambers? And why did he know her schedule for tomorrow?” Darlene asked. Janean’s head was down, intent upon the list Dole Had left.

“Darlene why don’t you finish for the day. All the work you have done will let me finish this order much more rapidly than Miss Chambers allotted. I really appreciate what you have done.”

Darlene didn’t press her question.????

NEED A STRONG HOOK HERE!!!! SOUNDS A LITTLE WEAK!!

CHAPTER 8

Local history COLLECTION

Down in the basement she discovers titles not there. This is not a circulating collection. Miss Bennett let Janean know that staff or public were never allowed to remove books from the room. Not even Miss Chambers.

Search shelf list.

Dodging staff to cross check title with the shelf list

Janean did her not so sly survey of the library, accounting for everyone’s whereabouts. Safe. Clutching the list of books from Ian Dole, she was going to launch an expedition to the local history books in the basement. She had done her homework, noting the call numbers for each item in advance. One last glance to ensure she was not observed, she pushed open the door to the off limits room, flipped the light switch and down the steps she proceeded. She breathed in the scent of old books as she went. She also noted the room was cool and dry, ideal for the preservation of old books. XXXXCall number for history of cod fishing in new England

"Okay." She looked at the first title and the call number, XXX.XXX. There were eight sections of shelving, four sections on either side of a central aisle. Along with the walk way between each stack there was another aisle that ran below four windows set high in the basement wall. This was the north side of the building, facing out upon Main Street. At the end of each stack was a sign indicating the call numbers in that range.

She looked down at the first title again, repeating the number. She wove her way through the shelving until she found the number, empty. There was a space, but no book. Misshelved? Happens in the best of libraries. Janean used her index finger as a guide, she ran over all the books on that shelf. Not there. The shelf above. Not there. Okay, there has to be an explanation.

Back to her list she would look for the second title. XXX.XXXX was the number. She found it just a few steps away. She put her list down and gently removed the book from the shelf, over one hundred and fifty years old. Her hands trembled, the history of this item, the fragility of its paper and binding, she held her breath. With care she opened the pages to the title page, her lips moving as she read down, so...

Okay Janean, you can't get carried away here. The ladies up stairs are going to be wondering where you are. Back to the list she hunted up the third title. Not here. Just like the first one, a blank space on a shelf. Number four, where are you. Whaling in the North Atlantic. Dole is into fishing and whaling, a man of varied interests.

What is going on here? Janean had found her way to another empty space on a shelf. This can't be. Hmm! At the Village library she had a reputation for being tenacious. A book out of place, a missing form or resolution of a troublesome reference question, she was relentless. These empty spaces on the shelves were inspiring just such commitment to problem resolution   

***

Janine had marked each card, indicating titles on the shelf and those missing.  At the top of the stairs she turned off the lights, and ever so slightly pushed the door open.  Through the slivered opening she4 could see the coast was clear.  Slipping out into the main reading room, she avoid detection, breathed a sigh of relief, and sat behind her desk.

“Damn!” Did I say they, was I overheard. She felt her wrist, monitoring her pulse rate. Off the charts. I’m getting paranoid, and for a good reason. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. She went through several repetitions of her breathing exercise.

She tried to focus and, someplace far far away, away from all the anxiety than drama and drama here at the library.  This isn’t

***

Paranoia

She could feel her pulse rate coming down. "Miss Clark!" Janean started. Now what? This'll nock the pulse back up. She turned to face the Assistant Director. Miss Chambers was off at a meeting in Augusta, Did she see me coming up from the basement. "What are you doing." The words came as a snarl.

Janean looked at her desk and back to Miss Bennett, "Work." She looked down at the cards she had been studying, casually she planted her arm across them. “Just work.” The young librarian smiled with innocence. No use stirring her up.

"Hmm." Bennett turned to take in her temporary domain, "You better be working." She sauntered off in a huff.

Sinking into her chair Janean was thankful she dodged the visit to the local history collection and her deep breathing exercise. She didn't think the Assistant Director would approve of either. Lifting her arm she retrieved the note cards, flipping through them she laid out her next investigation, the shelf list.

***

Janean tapped the tip of her pencil on the desk top, she hummed a tune, Taylor Swift's, Shake it Off. The pencil kept time. She turned her wrist, eleven-forty-nine. Eleven more minutes, and like robots, the library staff would troop off to the staff room where they would consume their lunch, talk about pets, gardening and share neighborhood gossip.

She would give them five minutes, then she would visit the workroom, the nerve center of the library. Well, nerve center might overstate the lethargic speed of the Somerset library. Janean had seen books on the best sellers list arriving months after their listing. Yes, the words would still read the same but interest would have flagged.

"Okay. Time to go." She began her cautious trek. At the far end of the hallway, she could hear muffled voices from the lunch room. Enjoy your repast and allow me to carry out my inspection. She ducked into the vacant work area. 

Janean ran her hands down the side of the shelflist catalog, dark walnut, it had a rich feel. Twenty drawers, four down, five across. She glanced back at the doorway, then turned to find the first missing title.

Pulling the drawer open she flipped through to the call number and title she wanted. Okay. She took the card from the drawer studying both sides. It was a mini biography of the book it represented. Author, title, accession and call numbers, publisher, year of publication, subject headings were noted. And then the local data, copy numbers, cost and source of purchase and date. Only one copy was indicated. It should be on the shelf downstairs. She chewed on her lower lip.

Janean had little experience with the workings of the pre-computer library world, dinosaur land, library friends called it. However, Janean had made some effort, wanting to know what had existed in the not so distant past. In the city many small research libraries continued with the card system or working in tandem with automation. Visiting such institutions she gained some familiarity.

“It must be misshelved.” she muttered. Reinserting the card she went on to the next, several titles further back. Turning the card over she found that the library had owned two copies the first had been discarded years earlier. The second, again should be on the shelf. What is this. For people that are almost obsessive compulsive they seem to be a bit lax.

A glance at her watch indicated she was running low on time. Gotta hunker down and get this done. She went into high speed mode. Rapidly she scanned cards, opened drawers, made notations and sped on to the next.

Finished! She slipped the cards into her cardigan pocket, walked out to the hallway and listened. The chatter coming from the lunchroom continued. Her felonious venture would go unnoticed.

As Janean walked back to her desk she ran this conundrum through her brain. Five books missing. No accounting was made for their disposition. This did not fit with Miss Chambers demanding nature, not from what Janean had experienced. Is someone stealing books from the library and Chambers is unaware? Should I bring it to her attention? That would require the new librarian to confess to sneaking about the director’s domain. Not so good.

***

Janine studied the notes on the table in front of her, between bites of her sandwich. She ignored the conversations from the other customers in the café.

Somerset was a fine old town, with a recorded history going back to the Pilgrim settlement of New England. She needed to better understand its past; not to mention that one day she was going to be quizzed by Miss Chambers. Being found lacking in local lore would not endear her to the boss. Not that she ever thought that was going to happen. She drank the last of her iced tea and with one hand she dabbed at her mouth with a linen napkin, and the other swept-up the check for the meal.

Out on the sidewalk she breathed in the clear, afternoon air. Being outside the confinement of the library was always a pleasure, the warmth and freshness just added to it. A quick glance at her watch, thirty minutes left to her lunch hour, she would stop at Mr. Gilcrest’s bookstore in the next block.

***

Janine noted the scent, similar to that found in the library basement. She studied the foot traffic on the walk outside, as Gilcrest finished-up with a customer. She looked over a table with discounted books, she was astounded by the prices. A quick appraisal of his store, the items out on display and those in the store room shelves, she calculated a collection perhaps in the several millions of dollars. Who would have thought?

"And do come again Mrs. Lancaster." The proprietor escorted his customer to the door, sending her on her way with a flourish.  Noticing Janean he intoned "Ah, may I help you."

"Yes, Mr. Gilcrest, I'm Janean Clark, the new librarian." She smiled.

He adjusted his glasses, and looked down his nose at the young woman before him. "The librarian…to those teenagers." Teenagers was pronounced with menace, as if they were a Mongolian hoard, swords raised high, swooping the air ready to remove the heads of women, children and other innocents. She offered her hand, he accepted it as if it were an over-ripe fish. Retrieving it he rubbed it against his three button vest, all the while offering a weak smile.

"Of course, I failed to recognize you," He fidgeted with his glasses as if that would improve his memory. "And how may I be of assistance," He recovered his professional demeanor."

She handed the shopkeeper the cards with the titles that she was interested in seeing. He studied her notes and nodded as he walked to a shelf along the back wall and then into the back room, through the open door she could see that her estimation was correct, this small store held a high value collection of materials. Returning, he placed the three books on the counter in front of the librarian along with a pair of white gloves.

She paused for a moment, not wanting to appear gauche she immediately slipped her hands into the gloves and with care she opened the first of the books, as if she knew what she was doing. An acid free tag gave a description of the item: title, author, publisher and date as well as the astronomical price. She then surveyed the table of contents, "Hmming" and "Ahhing" as she proceeded. Each book received the same treatment. Mr. Gilcrest seemed a bit impatient, he slipped his pocket watch from his vest, glancing to it several times.  Reminded of the passing of time and her too short lunch break she straightened and smiled. "I will put these on my list of titles for purchase." Only if some unknown great uncle were to leave me a fortune could I  make such a buy. The Clarks were not noted for wealth or even close proximity to wealth. A penniless librarian would be delusional  to compose such a list.

To aid in her escape from the shop she glanced at her watch, "Oops, my break is almost over, and thank you for allowing me to see your fine collection." She smiled as she turned to the door, he responded with a practiced insincere baring of his teeth.

***

As she rushed back to the library she could feel her loose shoelaces slapping at her feet. No time to stop and tighten them as she extended her pace. "Clark!" A voice behind Janean called out. "Clark!" Again, in a demanding tone. The big booming voice sounded just like that of her favorite cop and exercise instructor. "Clark." He boomed again. He has no intention of going away. She shrugged to a stop, with another quick glance at her watch. Miss Bennett will not appreciate this, being late. Does Somerset give out tickets for walking too fast, she wondered?

"I could hear those laces lashing against the sidewalk two blocks down. Just think of the damage they are doing to city property." Hands on hips he smirked at her. "And with your speed walking you could go sprawling, maybe take someone down with you. Then I would have to call out the EMTs, emergency room care, and injury time-off, the city would be out a good sum.”

She returned his smile with her best scowl, "I'm on probation, my boss is looking for any excuse to fire me and you are playing town finance officer. Please let me get to my job while I still have one." Another survey of her watch, two minutes to termination. She bent down, ripped off the offending shoe and began a rapid, KLIP, KLUMP, KLIP, KLUMP down the remaining half block to the library.

Opening the library door, shoe in hand,  Janean faced a dour Miss Bennett, arms crossed, staring at the wall clock above the check-out desk. Janean smiled, and sighed. "One minute to spare." The young librarian announced with glee. She klip, thumped, klip, thumped to her desk. The Assistant Directors mouth turned south all the more, an opportunity lost.

At her desk Janean exhaled and immediately adjusted her watch to run five minutes fast. She had no intention of losing this game to a bunch of grouchy, old maid librarians.

***

Dole and Janean sat on the patio outside the Higher Grounds. She shivered, he didn’t seem to notice. She studied the thick ribbing of his Aran Isle sweater, snug inside there aren’t you. Already, I don’t think I care for you. He had suggested the patio, she didn’t know better, and once there she was too proud to request a change of venue.

“Tell me, why is it that you instill such strong feelings from my employer?” She warmed her hands on the coffee mug. Dole poured coffee from a thermos into the cup that acted as the lid.

“Everything I believe in is an affront to the status quo, and her families long history of extracting wealth from the land and its people.” He sipped at his drink.

“You have quite an interest in whaling?” Her stomach rumbled, she did not feel comfortable with this man.

“In your library you have a book, Miss Chambers no doubt failed to see the message of the author. Written by Dr. Seuss, the title is the Lorax. The author tells of an industry focused on chopping down, processing and selling the Tuffalu, a mythical plant. He has all the elements, the need, the greed, the deprecation of those who call for restraint. And then the last Tuffalu is felled, all that is left is sadness. And the barons of industry go of to despoil some other pristine environ, out of greed. They have no sense of balance, permanence, or a future, it is all right now; geared to enriching those that have nothing to do with Somerset. The investor never sees, nor do I think they care about the damage their investments do. The whale is gone, the cod, and fish populations the world over are harvested to extinction, satisfying a hunger for the exotic or monetary gain.”

In the children’s room of the library there is a copy of Dr. Seuss’s, The Lorax. Miss Chambers must be unfamiliar with the underlying message. Conservation.

Janean was hypnotized by his dialogue, his voice taking control of her mind. I have to shake this off, I feel  as though I’m being sucked down into a dark hole, one that I might never find my way out of.  His mind resided in a world she couldn’t comprehend. Yes she wanted to conserve and preserve; Ian wanted to take on the system, turn it upside down. Would he stalk the Library Director, would he damage property and resort to other forms of violence? 

 Janean studied Dole’s face. He didn’t have the vicious sneer of a Lomax. He’s actually the quiet type. But Grandma Clark always warned, “Still water runs deep. It’s the quiet ones you gotta watch.”

CHAPTER 9

Janean's hair flew out behind her; she inhaled the cool country air as she pumped at the bike pedals, swishing along the grass lined road. The green of the fields was broken by the occasional farmstead or the fiery colors of the woodlands. The track steepened forcing her to stand on the pedals, Stairmaster style. Bursts of breath coming from her mouth. At the crest of the hill she stopped and looked down upon Somerset, the stiletto like white church spire, the somber brick town hall and further out on the cape the solitary lighthouse; she felt a warm surge from the picture card beauty, and from the exertion of the ride.

Putting her finger tips to her carotid artery she checked her pulse. If she was going to kill herself she wanted to know if the effort had been worth it. She smiled at the results, satisfied she had gotten a good workout.

Janean had left her bike at home in New York, luckily she had found an equally good vehicle in Somerset. Only a few nicks detracted from the gleaming paint. As with her previous bikes she had christened him with the honored name of Bucephalus.

She flipped her stead around and headed downhill. The slope carried her along at a good speed, just coasting, enjoying the ride. She savored the g-forces going through the curves, and the breeze mussing her hair. And then, on the next curve there was a flash, something metallic on the road surface, then a bump, and a thump, thump, thump as she came to a halt with a deflated front tire.

Getting off she gave the wheel a spin, a thick screw was impaled in the tire. No spare, no tool kit, “This is going to be a long walk back home.” She thought of using her cell to phone Mary Smart or Officer Dan. He would lecture her on going out without the proper equipment. The walk will do me good. She rationalized.

She tried to make the best of the situation, there was warmth in the sunshine, the field exuded a fresh sweet aroma and the birds trilled from the groves. An explosion behind her shattered the quiet. She jumped. Turning she saw the source, bearing down upon her was a massive wall of yellow, splotched with flowers of multicolors, reds, purples and blues. It screeched to a halt, smoke spewing from where the brakes probably were housed or not. As the window was rolled down, a sweet, heavy fog oozed forth; and a bandanna wrapped head and sunglasses popped out to view the deflated tire, "Man, your bike is dead," The wearer suggested.

"Flat tire," Janean countered.

"That too man," His head started nodding, it just kept going, it didn't want to stop. His hand came onto the scene with a funny, thin twisted cigarette, he sucked, and then it disappeared into the van. The head continued the bobbing, his lips pursed, "Yeah man, dead. Put it in back; give you a lift to town."

Janean froze. Standing with the bike between her and the head bobber she thought of running for the field, maybe find her way to a farm, before she became just another crime statistic. Bobber cracked his door open just as Janean heard the drivers side pop as well. God! now she was in deep stuff. Two of them chasing her, she remembered the nature films where one pursuer comes on strong while the other holds back, then comes on for the kill, she shuddered. But then it was too late. Around the front of the bus came a figure, maybe six-four, muscular, denim vest, tight jeans, Harley cap snugged down over long flowing blonde tresses. "Sweetheart let me help you with that." She gripped the crossbar with one hand, went to the back, flipped up the door and popped the bike in. Janean's feet shuffled in the roadside grit unsure what to do; The Bobber just continued the bob, interrupted by intermittent drags on his smoke. Muscle girl/woman came forward to slide the passenger door open, exposing two children quietly sucking on their thumbs.

"Jump in," Muscles suggested. Behind the children there was space where camping gear and duffels were stacked. "We'll take you down to Somerset, that okay?" Muscles inquired.

Janean gave this some quick consideration. They had her bike, there were kids on the scene, they wouldn't bump her off in front of the kids, would they? She summoned a wan smile and slid onto a low-lying duffle as the Bobber rolled the door closed. Then Mom and Dad sat themselves up front. Muscle Mom looked to her cargo, assured all was in order. From her vest pocket she pulled a cloth bag and a packet of Bugler roll-your-own paper. She took out a sheet, making a trough, sprinkled something from the pouch, folded and licked it sealed. Looking in the rearview mirror she held up her project, "Want one?" Muscles asked.

Janean declined with a soft, "No thanks." She thought to herself, am I coming over prissy, Is that how I sounded...judgmental, She tried to return a pleasant neutral smile. Mom lit-up, took a deep drag and then turned over the engine, it gave a pop, shudder and then the engine smoothed out to a gentle rumble. She eased on to the road, and the Bobber began rolling another, a family that ... well a family they are. Janean was just glad to be on the way home. The open windows pushed the smoke to the rear, little wonder that children were so mellow. She ran her hand across her mouth hoping to avoid the smoke, somehow. Just avoid inhaling. Might want to run for political office some day.

As the road descended into town the smokes were crushed, but saved to a pocket, Janean gave directions to the coffee house; I need the drug of my choice. The bus rattled to a stop. Bobs jumped out to open the side door and Mom got the bike from the back. Janean gave thanks for her deliverance, and found her way to the Higher Grounds.

***

The bike was pushed with one hand, Janean's other held the paper sack with coffee latte and oatmeal cookies, that would be dinner, not nutritious but a dinner of sorts. Down the sidewalk to her house she went. "Oh, no!" Her interior voice shouted, at her house she saw the stakeout. Officer Dan in civvies camped on her front steps. She approached with caution, kicking down the bike stand, awaiting the critical assessment of her condition and that of her personal eco-transporter.

He stood back taking in the disheveled hair and the flattened tire. "Appears you had one tough day," He inhaled as he stood, then pulled Janean close. His nose twitched, and he pushed her back. "Where have you been and what have you been doing?" Came the gruff, professional cop voice. Frown lines grooved his forehead, hands on hips he hovered over her, and sniffed like a DEA drug hound.

“That would be Popper Popejoy and his wife Natasha.” Kane had gotten Janean to narc out the couple. Their distinctive van gave them away. “We catch them now and then. He’s done some light jail time.”

Kane scanned the street. “You should get inside, that smell your giving off is going to draw a crowd. You might wanna scrub down with a strong soap. Then burn the clothes, you’ll never get the smell out.”

 “Isn’t that a bit excessive?” She had suggested. Cop that he was, he couldn’t stop, he went on to a recitation of the state penal code.  

“Kane, don’t you ever lighten up.”

“If you saw what is out there, the real underside of life, you would understand.”

Yeah, like this little librarian hasn’t experienced crime and criminals. “You wouldn’t need all those calcium tablets if you learned to let go—just a bit.”

“You would have to remind me.” He did his stomach rub and took an antacid from his shirt pocket. “Tell you what,” He crunched away, “I’ll take you on a ride along. Show you the seamy Somerset.” He smirked.

Janean gagged as she watched him swallow his medication without water. “Yeah, I could do that—ride along with you. I’m always willing to try something new.”

“Tomorrow too soon? I got a night shift.”

“Sunday night. Fine. I have nothing on my social calendar.” She pulled the cop off the porch and sent him on his way. Burning my clothes. That will never happen.

She gave her bike the full examination. The tire seemed to be the only injured appendage, she sighed, not a tool do I have for a tube repair. Poor old Bucephalus, you will have to go into storage, just for a few days. Janean jumped at the blast of a car horn. It wasn’t really a blast, however, for Mrs. Clark’s quiet neighborhood it might rank as an unnerving blare. Ian Dole waved from his truck, “Got a problem!” He yelled out. Can’t a girl endure a near death experience, abduction by marauding hippies and an induction into a cannabis cult without everyone in Somerset getting in on the act. Janean gave farmer Dole a weak wave.

Dole took the wave to be an invitation to further violate her personal space. From his truck he alighted, sauntering up the drive and immediately examining the tire. “I got the tools and the repair kit in the truck. Fix it up in no time.” Why do men immediately assume a woman is not capable to caring for herself. Maybe I have tools of my own and the handy-dandy repair kit. And maybe I don’t, but that’s no excuse to assume. Shoulders sagging she capitulated. I’m too tired to argue.

***

Janean sat on the porch drinking her now cold coffee and snapping off bites of her cookie. Where did I go wrong. I’ve always felt that I am living a righteous existence. Then I have days like this. She watched Ian Dole remove the tire, repair and replace it with the speed of a NASCAR pit crew.

“How’s that?” Dole asked as he secured the repaired wheel to the bike.

She looked up into the blue eyes, must be six-four, she calculated. “Nice…good. Yeah the tire looks good.” She blushed.

She looked down at his hands. “You tore the skin on your knuckle.”

“Yeah. Didn’t notice.” He sucked on the wound, spitting blood on Mrs. Carter’s lawn.

Janean gave him the motherly look of exasperation. “Come upstairs we’ll wash those hand of yours. Then I’ll properly tend to your bleeding.” She looked down where he had spit. Men! Hopeless!

She took the sack with the half consumed, cold coffee and cookie crumbs up to her apartment. There go my dinner plans. Dole followed behind.

***

Janean stood at her refrigerator, Dole was in the bathroom washing his hands. He best clean-up the sink when he is done. Janean took an assessment of her store of food. “Not much.” She spoke to herself.

“I need help.” Dole held out his bleeding finger and the band aide she had provided.

She turned to her patient. “Such a baby.” She said. He offered the wound to be dressed. She applied the covering as if she knew what she was doing. “Not too tight?” She asked.

“Fine. Thanks.” Dole said.

“Now for dinner. You repaired Bucephalus, the least I can do is feed my mechanic.” She opened the refrigerator again, “eggs, salad, and I have a chunk of artisan bread.” She took out the bread, gave it a good examination. “No mold.”

Dole offered to help with dinner. Janean only gave this a momentary consideration, "No, It's too crowded in here." She tied an apron around her waist. "Sit at the table, you can critique my culinary demonstration."

Janean set about cracking eggs, warming the bread and tossing the salad. Dole watched and asked questions.

He started with the bike. "Not many people have names for their bicycles. I have a bike, and he or she, unsexed I guess. Can't say that I've ever been interested in christening it with a name."

Janean's brow creased. "Hmm. Well...in the village I didn't have a car. I used my bike to get around. Bucephalus was...well, just that important, a confidant."

"Okay. I can accept that, but why Bucephalus?"

"Like many young girls I was infatuated with horses. My father read a story about Alexander the Great, Bucephalus his horse was pictured flying across the plains of Macedonia, with Alexander, the young warrior on his back. That little girl insisted that if she ever had a horse he would be Bucephalus. Well…I never had a horse, thus the naming of my bicycle."

"Alexander the Great wasn't really so great. He rampaged through the Mediterranean, killing and devastating. Then he took his show into the current day Middle East and then all the way to the western edge of India. No leader does it all on his own. Historians seem to gravitate to the great man philosophy, extolling men such as Alexander, Napoleon and Carl XII of Sweden. And in each instance they ended failing to establish a lasting empire, and bankrupting their own lands. Not to mention causing the deaths of tens of thousands.

This guy has the bad habit of ruining the atmosphere. Not to mention hurting Bucephalus’ feelings. She placed the omelets, salad and bread on the table. She smiled. I should dump it in your lap. “Bon appétit!” She announced as she sat.

***

Janean stood on the walkway, and waved goodbye to Dole as he disappeared into the night. She waited, looking up and down the street. Who else is going to come along and offer aid and assistance to the helpless damsel. “Janean!” She jumped, the voice came from out of the dark. “Are you okay, come inside before you come down with a chill.” Mrs. Carter was at her kitchen window. “Tell me all about your day. Must have been exciting with your men friends coming and going.” Damn, now my landlady wants to help with my social life. This misery just doesn’t want to end.

CHAPTER 10

"What's this?" Janean squawked. It wasn't a pleasant sound. Something akin to a duck being strangled. She was in the staff lunch room, a place she tried to avoid, and a place she was never invited, save for staff meetings. To economize she had been bringing a sack lunch to work, storing it in the refrigerator, eating al fresco, weather permitting or at her desk, most often. She had sensed on previous occasions that someone had been surveying the bags contents. However, she had checked that off as paranoia.

Not today. Paranoia doesn't come with inky finger prints. The brown paper sack, the plastic sandwich bag and her fresh yellow banana, not too green, not too yellow were covered with distinctive dark blue prints. Miss XXXX, of the ever present mimeograph stains would be the prime suspect. That's it I've had it!

Janean in a whirl wind, stormed down the hall to the director's office. Soiled lunch raised high she confronted Miss Chambers. "Miss XXXX has been rifling through my lunch. It was in the staff refrigerator. And as always I have my name printed in day-glow purple across the sack." She poured the contents of the marred bag onto the director's desk, displaying the despoiled items. "See."

Miss chambers stood. "What I see is a rude child, invading my office and casting aspersions on a valued employee of this institution. Miss XXXX has worked for this library for over fifty years. You have been here but months and have caused one problem after another. Now take this rubbish off my desk immediately, leave my office, and never again bring such outrageous accounts to me again."

***

JANEAN TALKS TO MARRY, CAN KANE CHECK FOR FINGER PRINTS—OR SHOULD SHE JU7ST CONTEMPLATE THIS ON HER OWN, REALIZING IT WOULD BE NO USE. Kane will just have a big laugh at my expense.

DOES JANEAN BRING THE BANANA TO THE RIDE ALONG. COULD GET A FEW LAUGHS OUT OF THIS?

***

Okay, it's now or never. Janean remembering Mary's words didn't want to make a fool of herself. But, she was beyond pissed. Her space had been violated, her lunch destroyed, appetite lost and Chambers turned it around, making Janean look like the bad guy.

Kane was checking out his vehicle, securing his armory of weapons, checking the dash gauges and pulling his seat belt tight. "Uh." She began, losing her nerve immediately.

Kane paused and gave her his limited attention, "Yeah?"

She slowly extracted the damaged fruit, sealed in a sandwich bag, from her pocket. She held it in front of the detective. "Huh?" He responded. "Wuz that?" It's dark in here Kane, but not that dark.

"A banana. Its a banana, and its evidence." The librarian stated. Her anger was returning. "It was involved in an act of..." I need just the right words. He needs to know how important this is. "...domestic terror. That's what it was. And there are finger prints all over this fruit."

Kane's jaw hung open, eyes vague. "How come I haven't heard about any terrorist activities involving bananas? Not around here."

Janean informed Kane as to the attack upon her lunch and the presence of mimeograph ink prints on the fruit. She ran through the retelling at breakneck speed, ending with a sigh. Kane's jaw never closed. "Huh." He responded, mouth finally closing. "Miss Clark, nosey neighbors and nosey co-workers aren't criminals. I and the department don't have time to resolve such dust-ups." He went back to his vehicle preparations.

"Dust-up. You call violations of my constitutional rights to privacy a dust-up."

"Talk to the lady. Let her know she shouldn’t be doing this stuff. See what happens." Everything in order he settled back. Now we begin your ride along. No more banana stories. We go after the real criminals out there.

Janean wanted to scream. She wanted to toss the banana out the window. But, no. She would put the evidence away, be the solid citizen and play Kane's game.

Kane's spiel on the premier department

“Now sit back, watch and don’t touch anything.” He instructed. Actually it was more a command.” Janean was sitting in the passenger seat of the patrol car. The long awaited ride-along was about to happen.

I don’t want to touch anything. The car, a standard large sized sedan, had the added bells and whistles of a police cruiser. Separating the librarian from the cop was the most conspicuous item, a shot gun propped up for ready access. She gulped. Most everyone knew the damage such a weapon could do. Scary just to be around it.

“Okay Clark, you are going to see what real police work looks like.” He pulled out from the curb. “Wash all those TV shows from your head. Watch and listen, you get to see how professionals operate.”

Janean was at a loss. She was not one who watched television dramas. The few that she had seen were soap operas on steroids. Okay Kane, you show me how it is done. “We both belong to city departments. I feel that it is important to see how different city services operate.” Janean said.

 “Well Clark, you are starting with the premier department.” Kane proclaimed with a broad smile. “I’m going to start us off with a stakeout on Harbor Road.” He cranked the wheel and steered onto a darkened Main Street. The many lights of the instrument panel reflected back at his face. “Word from the street,” He paused and looked over to his passenger,” There is a big deal coming down…tonight.” He punctuated his statement with a knowing nod.

Kane pulled over, the cruiser facing down hill, rows of bars and warehouses along one side. The other side was the harbor. It was dark and cold, not much foot or vehicle traffic. An intermittent breeze blew a thin fog off the water and up the hill.

Janean thought about her damaged lunch and the toxic ink prints. She cleared her throat. Kane raised his had, quieting the expected words. Then the Shh! The sound coming from the detective.

They had only been parked a moment when they saw a figure trudging up hill. “Watch this guy!” Kane smiled.

Janean was watching. It was a guy, late forties, scruffy dark hair, thick stubble on his face, heavy plaid shirt, hands stuffed in his jeans. “And! What exactly am I looking at.”

“There ya go. You have a lot to learn. And Professor Dan is going to be your teacher.” Kane radioed the description of the Perp. He wasn’t really a Perp at this point. He had done no wrong. “He’s coming right at us. We’ll let him get out about ten feet, step out and talk to him.”

Janean continued the analysis of the approaching citizen. Can’t a guy go for a walk in the fog without being rousted by the cops.

Kane’s lips were making the countdown. “Ten feet. Let’s hit it.” He made it sound like the SWAT team going in for the big bust.

Kane held up his hand to the Perp, Janean stood back three steps. “Neighbor, where you going at this hour.”

The Perp stopped. His left hand moved at his pocket. “Clark! Get down!” The cop shouted. The librarian crouched to the ground. Kane’s right hand swung out, grabbing the perps left, spinning him around. Arms pinned, and a quick pat-down found nothing in his front pockets, billfold and keys in the his back.

Kane gave him a shove, planting him against the patrol car. Nose to nose with the perp, he spat out, “What did you do with it?” He demanded.

“Wha…?” Perp said. He was pouring sweat in the chilled air. “What you want. I ain’t got nothin’” He sputtered.

Kane’s eyes scanned the street surface, his foot probing. “Clark. You see where he tossed it.”

Janean was standing now and edging even further back. “I didn’t see anything. You moved so fast.”

“That’s right. Officer Dan Kane is known for his lightning speed.” He taunted the perp. “Face the car.” He kicked at the guys feet spreading them apart. You done this before?”

“No, man!”

“Clark go out in the street look for anything out of place.” Kane ordered. Yes sir!  The librarian bent low, crisscrossing the street finding nothing of interest.

Kane examined the perp from head, down to boot tops. Nothing did he find. Well, there was a wrist watch and a used tooth pick in the pocket of his plaid jacket.

Kane whipped the perp around, pushing him against the car again. “Clark! What have you found?” He barked.

“I’m not sure I like this so very much.” She muttered.

“Speak up Clark.” He said. “Can’t hear you.”

“Sorry Kane. Cigarette butts, bottle caps and lots of broken glass. No weapons, drugs….” She was cut off by Kane.

“That’s enough Clark.” Irritation in his voice.

 Examining his suspect’s ID, Kane asked, “So. Todd Kreel, what did you have in your pocket?” The question came with a smirk.

Kreel looked down, “My hand.” He said.

“Your hand.” Kane laughed. “And why did you need to take your hand from your pocket, at just that moment.”

 “My watch. I was going to show you my watch. Eight o’clock? I get off work at the café,” His thumb went over his shoulder, indicating the small diner in the block behind. “Eight every night. Jus’ walkin’ home.”

 Kane shown his Maglite in Kreel’s face and back to the state ID. “Yeah. It’s you.” Kane said, handing it to Kreel. The cop rubbed at his chin. “Well…get on home. We don’t want to keep you.” He tightened the belt on his trench coat and gave Kreel, no longer the Perp, a parting nod.

The Detective watched Kreel walk up the hill and turn the corner. “Did you see the wristwatch—on his left hand.” He rubbed at his chin again. “He’s right handed. Don’t forget that.”

Janean didn’t know what to say. Ninety percent of the population is right handed, wearing their watch on the opposite hand. Somewhere around one percent are ambidextrous. Lefties makeup the remainder. So what’s your point Kane? She didn’t want an argument, being in the cramped car together. All night.

“Every detail is important Clark. Can’t miss a one.” He said as they buckled up in the cruiser.

Janean didn’t respond. So you blew your cover, rousted an average Joe, and left me feeling dirty. She thought about Lomax, and how he seemed to always have a Get Out of Jail Free Card. And every time an innocent person was hassled, arrested or falsely convicted a person like Lomax was out there breathing fresh air and continuing their life of crime.

***

“All units respond to fire at Rocky Point.” The voice came over the radio.

“What. It can’t be.” Kane sat up, looked to Janean and back to the radio. He grabbed the mic, gave his location and time of ETA. He hit his lights and siren, punched the gas pedal and shot through the outskirts of town and onto Rocky Point Road. “Second fire in less than a year. These ecological nuts are driving me crazy.” Kane’s face, lights reflecting from the dash,  took on a demonic appearance.

Janean held fast to the grab bar, thrown from side to side as Kane careened over bridges, and skidded through tight corners.  They could see the glow of fire in the distance. “Nothing but damn terrorist. Just when people were signing up for new jobs, they do this.” Kane slammed on the brakes, the cruiser fishtailing to a stop behind the line of fire trucks and ambulances. The sky was erupting with tongues of orange and red, and then there were the jarring explosions from the inferno accompanied by the acrid smell of burning wood.

Lights were flashing, commands being shouted and plumes of water pumped onto the flaming resort. The water had little impact on the fully engulfed structures.

“You stay here Clark. Don’t move, don’t ask any questions. Got it?” Kane, not too nicely suggested.

“Sure thing.” She responded. This guy is barrel of monkeys. A freight train full of clowns. Must be a riot to work with.

The librarian lasted fifteen minutes sitting in the car. Enough! She slid out, keeping to the shoulder of the road, away from the police and firefighters moving back and forth. The toe of her shoe scuffed against a clump of mud. She looked down at ridge of clay-like soil that ran into the shoulder of the road. He said not to move. Just a short step or two. Then she took a pen light from her purse. “A girl should always carry a pen light,” Grandma Clark insisted.

The beam traced the path, a car tread. A car that would have been parked with one tire on the shoulder, the other in the road. She fanned the light in an outward spiral taking in the surrounding terrain. Bits of paper seemed to be discarded in a tight circle away from where the car or truck sat. Back to the track, following the full length, what’s that? The beam settled on an odd shape, she crouched for a closer look.

“Clark!” It sounded like a gun blast. It was Kane. His shout gave Janean the scare that catapulted her into the mud. Her hands and right knee broke her fall. The dislodged pen light shown in her face.

“Whadayadoin Clark?” More shouting from Kane. “Didn’t I tell you to stay in the car. Don’t move. Don’t talk. No. Not you, you gotta play detective.” He pulled at her arms lifting her from the muck.

“Watch your feet Kane. There’s a tire track here.”

“Great Clark! Are you telling me you planted your body in the middle of potential evidence. Never again. No more ride alongs for you. Should of known, taking out a librarian would end in disaster.” His arms churned at the air.

Bent over she wiped at her muddied knee with her equally muddied hands. She retrieved her light, shining it where her knee had landed. The track was still there, the pattern she had seen just for a moment was gone. “You’ll get a great impression of my knee Kane.” She looked at the officer, he didn’t think the remark was humorous.

He responded with a growl. “Give me that thing.” He grabbed the light and began a study of Janean’s evidence. “Well Clark, you didn’t destroy it all. Still enough for an ID. Forensic team gets here, they’ll take a cast.” He shook his head. “Librarian.”

“Keep in mind Kane you walked right by this. And did you notice those scraps of paper over there. Probably cigarettes. Someone out here smoking before they torched the buildings.”

He scowled. “I saw it Clark. What do you take me for.” He shined the light, picking up the scraps of paper. “Yeah, I saw that Clark. Not much that I miss.”

Janean pulled up the collar on her cardigan. “Cold out here, we leaving soon?” Her teeth began to chatter.

“Clark we’re in the middle of a criminal investigation here. I can’t be chauffeuring you around town.” He responded. “Get back in the car.” He started to turn back to the burning resort. “And don’t touch anything.”

She didn’t touch anything. She sat and waited. The imprint in the mud ran through her head. A stylized flower, circle in the middle with symmetrical loops around the outside. A diameter of an inch and a half, maybe two inches. Odd sort of thing to be in the middle of a tire tread.

***

Kane was hunched over his desk. Before him sat a cold cup of coffee and an incomplete report, “it had to be arson,” he had been muttering. He would wait for the final word from the fire investigators. His eyes were red and he smelled of smoke.

“For you Kane.” Sophie Crenshaw, Senior Clerk and major force behind the smooth running of Somerset P.D., tossed an envelope on the detective’s desk. Kane stared at the object.

“Who’s it from.” He slurred.

“How would I know. No return address. And there is no stamp. No clue as to how it got here, not delivered by Uncle Sam.” Sophie, arms in the air continued, “Think Kane. Think. That’s the same MO of the stalker guy. The one that sent letters to the old lady at the library.”

Kane gave Sophie a dazed, slack jaw look. “Yeah, you might be right.” He tore the envelope open. His right hand rubbed the side of his face. His shaking left hand attempted to read the poorly typed note.”

“So what ya got Kane?” Sophie edged closer, but not too close. Kane’s ill temper was on display.

“Guy wants credit for the fire.” Both hands went to his hair, he pulled. “Why me Sophie? Why me?” His head rocked side to side, if it hadn’t ached so already, he would have bounced it off the desk top.

Sophie opted for a tactical retreat. Over her shoulder she suggested, “Get a grip Kane. The day’s just started.”

CHAPTER 11

IS THIS WHINEY?

MIGHT WANT TO OPEN AGAIN IN ANGUISH—FRETTING AT DESK, JANEAN THEN COMES IN?

Janean slouched in Kane’s guest chair. He glanced over to her, “Long day?”

“I could do a better job, feel better about the library if I was welcomed.” Her head shook from side to side with effort. “But I’m not sure they want positive results from me, more like they are looking for excuses to terminate me.” She sighed.

Dan pulled a glossy photo from his desk, flashed it at Janean and then studied it as he leaned back in his chair. “185R14 was the tire that made this. Common tire. Volkswagen Type 2 vans, Mercedes 250 C were some of the models using this tread.” His head nodded up and down as he mused upon this finding.

“How about the cigarettes? What brand were they?” Janean asked. She hadn’t gotten close enough, but she had an inkling as to Kane’s answer.

“They weren’t.” The detective smirked. “They were hand rolled joints. What was left of them.”

Janean rubbed at the palm of her hand, she thought about that tire impression and the mention of VW. The Popejoys talked about saving the trees and wildlife all the way back to town. Would that include arson. Naw, they were the family type. Her memory of that shape was still not admissible evidence, no need of mentioning it to the Cop across the desk. He would jump at picking up the dreaded hippies. Just because they were at the resort wouldn’t mean they were the arsonists. She would have to hold back, she squirmed, thinking about this gap in her loyalty to Kane.

“I’m sorry, talking about tires would be of no interest to you.” He snickered, tapping the edge of the glossy, returning it to the desk. She smiled, let him think I’m a stupid female, no interest in tires or discarded weed. Maybe in time I will enlighten him. Not now, snicker on fool.

***

Mary brought Janean her sandwich and a coffee refill. “Mind if I join you.” The proprietor of Higher Grounds asked.

“My pleasure. I’ve been deprived of adult conversation.” Janean said.

Mary restrained her laugh. “Are you saying that the library staff is less than adult.

Their conversation was interrupted by a noise outside. “That’s a terrible racket.” Mary said, the two women looked out the window. Thump! Thump! Thump! The brightly colored VW bus, the source of the noise, passed, going up Main Street. The Bobber nodded to all passerby, smiling with his glassy stare. “Popper and Natasha Popejoy, sometime residents of the countryside. Harmless I guess.” Mary informed.

“We are old friends.” Janean offered with a wry smile.

“And how is it that the librarian has befriended the Popejoys?”

“Well…” Janean went into a summary of the weekend exploits with Popper and Natasha and the ride along with Kane. With some guilt, she left out her destruction of a crime scene. No use exposing my klutziness.

***

“I was riding my bike down the hill, She pointed to the west, “I picked up a metal screw, ruined my ride and the tire. You get many people coming in with metal objects flattening their tires.

Leaving the Higher Grounds, Janean had seen the Popejoy van passing down hill. There was no thumping. She had been in town long enough to have passed City Garage, the only gas station possessing a mechanic in Somerset. Just a block away, she would interrogate the proprietor, Mr. Ed Flynn, his name was above the door.

The mechanic wiped some of the grease from his hands, looking her over. “Why does a clean looking woman like you want to know so much  about tires.”

“I‘m a librarian,” She explained, he interrupted with burst of laughter.

“Great, I gotta explain all about tires to the librarian.”

She crossed her arms, and waited for his moment of merriment to end.

“Yeah, I get lotta customers with flats, pick up nails, screws broken pieces of metal all kinds of cra…stuff,” He caught himself.

“What do you do with the…stuff?” She asked.

“I got a business to run here lady,” He shook his head, “That can over there,” He pointed, grabbed a wrench, and went back to the car on the rack.

Janean walked up to the grease covered drum filled with a variety sharp, metallic (pieces). She walked around it to get better light, and there on top she found the flower shaped object that conformed to the print she had destroyed in the mud. Avoiding as much grease as she could the object was pulled from the mechanics treasure trove. She walked it over to the mechanic who was using both hands on his wrench to loosen a bolt. “Mr. Flynn, excuse me, please.” She asked.

“What now lady,” He looked over his shoulder.”

“This thing Mr. Flynn,” She held up her find for him to see.

“I got better things to do, what about it.”

“Do you know where it came from?”

“Don’t you ever stop asking questions? Came from a VW van, just before you got here, that hippie bunch that is staying out in the woods, friends of that tree hugger, Dole.” He turned back to his wrench and the bolt that didn’t want to give.

“Do you remember the tire size?”

His face was turning red as he put all his energy into torquing the offending bolt off. He expelled a burst of air and spit as he at last wrenched the object loose. Hunched over, tool in hand he looked at the librarian, wishing her away. Between gasps he said, “Standard VW tires…185R14…I think…Now go away…please!”

She took a step back, “Can I have this chunk of metal?” She asked.

His hands stretched out in a pleading motion, “Lady you can have the whole God damn can, just go away.” She smiled as his face crumbled, ashamed of his outburst. He shook his head, “I’m sorry…that was wrong. No way to talk to a lady.”

“I’ve heard worse, even in libraries, I’ll go now and thank you for your time.” Janean offered. As she walked down the street she squeezed the rosette in her hand, she thought about the meaning, should she tell Kane, but thought better of that. There was no solid connection. She had obliterated that portion of the track; the only connection was that brief image in her head and the metal in her hand. Hardly the sort of evidence one hears of in a court of law.

CHAPTER 12

Mr. McLaughlin cleared his throat and rapped his knuckles on his desk to bring his senior literature class to order. “Enough,” He intoned, and looked around the room, “Francis Hardy,” He motioned for Grunge to approach his desk. His student worked his way from a sprawl, to standing erect, too shuffling his feet, working his way to Mr. McLaughlin’s presence. He faced his summoner.

“You read the Cherry Orchard?” McLaughlin asked. Grunge nodded yes. The teacher arched his brow, shaking his head.

“Who wrote this?” The teacher held out a term paper to his student. The young man noted for  sidewalk acrobatics had difficulty dealing with this inquisition.

“I did.” Grunge stammered.

McLaughlin tossed the report to the side. “I find that difficult to believe. You are unable to offer more than a syllable at a time when called upon.” He crossed his arms, and then sneered. “Who was Lyubov Andreyevna Ranevskaya, and what was her significance to the play?” The teacher rose up and down on his toes, with a smirk of satisfaction.

Grunge focused on his feet. His right foot rubbed at the linoleum floor. With a sigh his eyes went up to meet those of his teacher. “Ranevskaya was the Mistress of her family's estate. She was materialistic, but had a heart. She went out of her way to help the poor and injured. Her joy was derived from lavishing riches on friends and lovers. She has fond memories of the orchard. However, she and her family were incapable of saving the land that had brought so much beauty and pleasure. She represented a culture in decline, an aristocracy lacking the skills or the will to  preserve itself or their past.”

The instructor interrupted, shoulders slumping, “Go back to your desk…and I’ll be expecting more from you in the future.” Darlene smiled up at Grunge as he passed. He nodded to her, brushing hair from his eyes.

Grunge slumped into his desk, head down he could hear the whispered comments. Since moving to Somerset he had attempted to recreate himself, build a new persona. He was Grunge, the uncaring skateboarder. His cover was blown, he wasn’t sure that Flyman was going to hang with a nerd. Damn that McLaughlin, should have told him it was copied or taken from someone’s back pack, his mind wrestled with the options not taken.

***

Darlene pulled at a wayward strand of hair, twisting it around her finger as she read. “Darlene, did you read it?” Emma, tall, thin and blond, gushed. “Wasn’t it just the best?” Darlene head dropped, I don’t need this, not now.

Darlene pushed aside the remains of her lunch as she looked up to her friend.  “Emma, have a seat.” How do I do this without hurting her feelings, but stay true to my beliefs? “Did you eat?”

“You know me, energy drink is all I allow myself,” Emma asserted her oft repeated mantra. Darlene should have known better. Yeah, one of the many sacrifices to be made while searching for Mr. Right.

“So, the book? Wasn’t he just such a man, strong, take-no-prisoners type.” Emma swooned a she sat next to her friend.

Darlene leafed the pages of the textbook she had been studying. “I’ve been working on my Trig assignment.” She rubbed at the side of her head to emphasize the mental demands of the work. Graduation just weeks away, major trigonometry test, and my good friend can only think of Mr. Hunk.

“Yeah…whatever…about the book?” Emma was not going to let an inconsequential trig test get in her way.

Darlene sighed. If nothing else Emma was tenacious. “Well, it was an interesting story.” Yes all those body parts flying here and there propelled by the macho hero, not to mention women tossed in and out of his bed chambers.

“Makes me think of dogs and cats,” Darlene offered.

“Dogs and cats? There weren’t dogs or cats in the story.” Emma’s brow arched, then she caught herself, hand shooting to her forehead, fingers massaging away any potential wrinkles.

“No, something I remember…think it was Mark Twain…” Darlene knew all too well that it was Twain. Emma pouted, knowing Darlene was on a major rant. “He said that dogs can be abused by their owner, time and time again, they stay loyal to the end. A cat, if abused just once, will never forget, and their loyalty is held back.”

“Huh?” Emma was puzzled. “That has nothing to do with the story. You didn’t read it did you?”

Reading the book didn’t matter. They were all the same, a template, one atrocious scene after another. Book after book. “It has everything to do with the story. Your hero abused the heroine, cheated on her and she kept going back, pleading for more abuse. A woman should be more like a cat, not accepting ill treatment, being strong within herself.” Darlene was getting her steam up, she could feel a major treatise developing.

“Wha…but what kind of story would that make? That’s not interesting…not exciting.” Emma’s forehead crinkled recklessly. She frowned all the more as she furiously massaged away..

“A woman should hold her head high, take pride in her self-worth. In a relationship she should be a coequal with her partner, they should respect and support one another.” Emma was numb; Darlene’s response deflated her enthusiasm, what good was a story if you couldn’t share it with your best friend. Shoulders slumped, she drifted off to another table, looking for moral support.

Darlene went back to her text book, flipping pages but not seeing the numbers and formulas. “That’s not exciting” kept echoing in her head. War, the clanging of swords, the ships scuppers flowing with blood, now there were images that over heated the brain. Living at peace within a community, or with a loving mate, how so very dull. She exhaled a sigh and went back to her Trig.

***

A shadow passed over Darlene, she sensed that someone was looking at her. Now what? She had this Trig test coming and she wasn’t confident she had mastered the subject. Her face came up with her best get lost look.

“No! No! I didn’t know it was you.” Darlene responded to the emotional implosion she saw on the face of  Francis Hardy, better known as Grunge. “Please sit down. We can talk about the Cherry Orchard.”

Grunge nodded, sat and placed his stack of text books next to hers. “Trig,” He saw what she was reading, “Studying for the final?”

Darlene’s shoulders slumped as she expelled a sigh. Her blue eyes pleaded for an epiphany, anything that would enlighten her. “I’m not a numbers person. I have only survived this far with paid tutors. All this information runs through my head like water through a sieve.”

“Show me what it is. Is there one concept in particular. Maybe, we could work on it together.” He leaned close, he absorbed her body’s warmth and inhaled her perfume. She turned her text to him, her index finger pointing to the incomprehensible theorem. “Okay, we can do this.”

They worked through the lunch hour making headway, imparting knowledge and getting some of it to stick.

 As they collected books and paper, Darlene asked, “Grunge, could we talk after school? Maybe at the park gazebo. Could you be there?”

Grunge toyed with the tennis ball in his jacket pocket. He was squeezing it hard. Those dark blue eyes of hers seemed to melt his insides. “Sure I can be there,” He stumbled on the words, “Right after school.” Her eyes followed him as he moved down the hall, disappearing into the crowd. He’s special he will always be unique.

***

Darlene watched her feet as she took the steps up the gazebo. Patches of moss made the way treacherous. Under the canopy she pulled her overcoat tight around her, and listened to the drops of rain finding their way through holes in the roof above, down to the puddled floor. It was peaceful, just for the moment to be alone, she sighed.

“Waitin’ for someone?” She jumped, at the raspy voice coming from the shadows behind. She had been certain there was no one here when she entered. She turned to the gnarled face of the library janitor, inches from hers. His broken, smoke stained teeth smiled at her. “High school kids come here to smooch, watch ‘um all the time, but they don’t know ‘bout me, I hide real good.” He snorted, bringing attention to the forest of hair growing on his bulbous, vein scarred nose.

***

Grunge walked, though it was more like a run, through the wet grass. The cuffs of his tattered jeans were soaked by the time he reached the steps of the gazebo.

Darlene was waiting, her breaths came as breathing deeply. He blushed, was this about him? She looked beyond the bushes and out to the trees. “What happened?” He asked.

“That man, the library janitor. He talked to me, the way he acted was strange. He made me uncomfortable.” She held on to Grunge’s jacket pulling him close, resting her head on his shoulder. “I didn’t want it to be like this. I wanted it just to be us.” Her cheek was on his shoulder, she whispered in his ear. Her warmth radiated on his ear and down his neck. He could smell the sweetness of her breath and feel the rise and fall of her breast. He didn’t know what to say.

“Darlene, stay here. I will  circle out, around the buildings, he can’t have gone far.” He suggested. Her arms wrapped tight around him.

“No, it is getting dark. Please walk me home.” There was a shudder in her voice.

They walked along the well lit, well traveled sidewalks. They held hands, she leaning to him, “Stop here.” She said. They were under a street light. From her coat pocket she took a paper and unfolded it. “Today at lunch we had our notebooks on the table, papers all over…”

“Yes, how could I forget. I was with you.” He said. They smiled.

She handed him the paper. He knew what it was immediately. How could I be so stupid. He scolded himself, and began to refold it and slip it in his pocket. She placed her hand on his, putting his move to a stop. “Read it to me. Please.”

“I can’t.” He shook his head and looked away. “It’s too personal.”

She grabbed his sleeve, took the paper and read in a whisper:

The Dream

It was a dream, I think.

You were there at the landing,

you're arms outstretched.

I stood below, watching.

You stepped and tumbled.

I gasped in air, my lungs burning,

frozen, my legs could not move.

You lay at my feet, broken,

I bent to you, I kissed your lips.

You murmured. You smiled.

I ached at your fall,

I felt shame for my inaction.

You forgave me.

It was a dream, I think.

“Why wouldn’t you want to share a poem that is so beautiful?” She looked  into his dark eyes.

“That guy, the janitor or whatever, I wasn’t there for you. Like in the poem, it made me feel weak and useless. That was my dream, seeing you fall and not being able to move. My father was like that, useless, and then he left us. That’s my fear. Loving a person and not being able to protect them. I have dreams like that, all the time.”

“Dreams are just dreams. They aren’t who we are, just phantoms that run around in our heads at night. Your poem tells me who you are and what you are, what you want to be. This is substance,” She handed him the paper, “not chimera.” She hugged him, turned and pulled him along to her house.

CHAPTER 13

The flashing red and blue lights from the police cruisers lit the crowded sidewalks for the curious citizens of Somerset. There were the few drawn to Mr. Porter’s speech by the scientific and political implications, however, most seemed to find the controversy and spectacle just too much to resist. Normal strides were stretched a bit this night, no one wanted to be left in the cold or without a good seat in the auditorium.

Officer Dan Kane stood at the edge of the street studying faces, looking for signs of stress, a body uncomfortable in the crowd, an unfamiliar face, all of the above.

Chief Adams stood next to his detective. He was making his department’s presence known, but not putting on a show of force. The budget wouldn’t allow such an expenditure; and that just wasn’t his style; after all he was a conservative New Englander. He embraced watchful readiness, stand back, observe, and respond when necessary. They spoke to one another, nodded in response to salutations from the citizenry, but mostly observed and waited.

As a librarian Janean Clark felt that awareness of local issues was important. Not to mention there was an almost festive atmosphere. Friends and neighbors, shouting to one another. Even some joking back and forth. She noticed ahead a familiar man towering above the crowd. Ian Dole stood out in such a mass event. The pony tail, the build, all marked his presence.

Janean worked up close to Dole. She wanted to get a variety of opinions on this lively subject. She had her views, having a conscience she was concerned for future generations, what would be their quality of life? And she knew the other side had their arguments, she wanted to hear them as well. Seeing the audience responses would be as important as the words spoken. Sliding between projecting elbows and stumbling children she found her way to Dole’s side.

***

Janean sat next to Dole in the auditorium where  they were surrounded by his environmentalist friends. She settled in, this is going to be an eventful evening.

Grumbling and taunting shouts came from behind. Dole leaned back and spoke to some in the group. “The man deserves a hearing. I’ve discussed the issues with him previously. I have a good idea what he is going to say, but let’s give him his opportunity to speak.” His words were met with some skeptical responses. “He is promising a question and answer segment at the end. Then we have our chance to be heard.” Dole reassured.

The stage lighting came on and the attendees went silent. Miss Chambers, the sponsor of the program, introduced the speaker as a noted scientist and college professor. Janean looked up at Dole, he was fighting back a laugh. I’ll have to ask what was so funny. Chambers concluded her introduction, inviting Mr. Porter to the podium.

Porter received polite applause. Janean heard a familiar voice several rows back. He expressed his dislike of Porter with a series of expletives. “This is going to be interesting. Buckle me in I don’t want to fall out.” She whispered to Dole and grasped the arms of her seat.

Porter cleared his throat and began his talk. “Most scientists do not believe human activities threaten to disrupt the Earth’s climate. As a matter of fact more than 17,000 scientists have signed a petition circulated by the Oregon Institute of Science and Medicine saying, they are unconvinced that global warming is man caused., there is no convincing scientific evidence that human release of carbon dioxide, methane, or other greenhouse gases is causing or will, in the foreseeable future, cause catastrophic heating of the Earth’s atmosphere and disruption of the Earth’s climate.”

Mr. Porter you do a disservice to your cause. You are not a public speaker, Janean wanted to inform Porter. The speaker delivered his words in a monotone. She squirmed in her seat, her hand going to her mouth as she suppressed another yawn.

Janean forced her eyes not to close. She attempted to focus on the words, not the drone.

Porter rolled on, “Our most reliable sources of temperature data show no global warming trend.” The audience was polite, listened, but were being lulled to sleep by the heavy dose of technical jargon and his dull presentation.

 After what to Janean seemed to be hours, the speaker began his conclusion. “I think that I have unequivocally put to rest any serious discussion of global warming.” He smiled at his audience. There could be heard a sigh of relief, followed by polite applause. Well there was that voice again behind, being not so polite in his mumbled remarks.

“I know that it won’t be necessary, I have covered and thoroughly debunked this issue. But should you have any questions I will be glad to answer them for you.” Porter said.

A microphone had been placed in the middle aisle, close to the stage. Porter invited questioners to come forward.  Only a few took the offer at first, then the number increased. Many of the questions were supportive of Porters thesis. Others not so.

Ian Dole, sitting in the aisle seat, turned to Janean. “Excuse me, I have a few questions for our speaker.” He stood and walked down to the line that was shortening.

When Dole’s turn came he spoke, “Are you a believer Mr. Porter, do you consider yourself a Christian?”

“Why of course Mr. Dole, aren't we all.”

“Religion, Christianity isn’t based upon scientific fact, or laws. It is based upon oral traditions, mythology and leaps of faith. We see symmetry, complexity and beauty and from this we intuit the hand of a supreme being at work. Is that not so.”

“Yes…yes, I guess so.”

“However I give you facts: Melting glaciers, rising oceans, island nations submerged, catastrophic weather events, rising accumulations of greenhouse gases. These facts, this data is not acceptable to you.”

“Mr. Porter, have you seen, touched, communicated with god, face to face?”

Porter began to stammer, “Well…well…of course not.” He chuckled and smiled at the audience, “I doubt that anyone here has had such a communication or experience, but that does not affect our level of belief.” He received light applause.

“So you are suggesting that belief in god can be based upon oral traditions and leaps of faith. But recognition of global warming, acid rain and other forms of environmental pollution must answer to some higher level of proof. Something beyond reams of data, and endless scientific study. Interesting.” Dole stepped aside from the microphone.

Popper Popejoy, now I remember, the voice Janean had been hearing from behind, charged down the aisle shaking his fist in the air, "Lies! Nothing but lies!" He ran past Dole, knocked the microphone to the floor then rushed the stage. “You lying piece of garbage.”

Porter was startled, he turned to face the onslaught. Popejoy launched himself into the speaker, grabbing at his throat and wrestling him to the floor.  Red of face, Porter gasped and pounded, fist to the floor. “Help me! Oh God! Help me!” He rasped out.

Popejoy ranted. "Lying scum, I'm going to kill your evil mouth." Porter’s head was being pounded on the wooden floor.

Dole ran to Porter’s defense, Kane and the Chief, who had been at the back of the auditorium, were sprinting toward the melee. Small though he was, Popejoy straddling the speaker, continued the thumping of the man’s head onto the resonating floor.

Natasha Popejoy, raging as loudly as her husband, swooped down on Popper. She beat upon him with pummeling fists, “What’s the matter with you.”  She fumed. “You’re up here, disgracing me and our kids.” Kane and the Chief pulled at both Popejoy’s. Porter rolled away from Popper, his throat bruised and swollen. The speaker gasped out a hoarse call for criminal charges against his attacker.

***

“Wow! What a night.” Janean said. She, Dole,  and Mrs. Carter occupied a table at the Higher Grounds. Drinks in hand they discussed the speech and Popper Popejoy’s exploits.

“May I join the party?” Mary  asked. “I hated to miss what is sure to become a legend in Somerset history. But someone had to keep the doors open. Not that I had to.  Everyone was at the high school.” She looked to Dole. “Okay Ian, what is your analysis of the evening.”

"Well, if you demand that I say something. Porter is following the same playbook as that used in the fight over tobacco and other health hazards. Throw out seeds of doubt. Show a bit of concern, but shake your head, purse your lips and indicate that the science just isn't definitive. Until there is absolute proof, we can’t change the way we do business. Did you here him use the word  “convincing” several times. He wants convincing proof. Who determines what is convincing? The petroleum industry?" Dole shrugged.

“Members of my family talked of tobacco as if it were a health food. None of them died of cancer. Every last one died of a heart condition. Each experienced a slow miserable death. Not unlike the slow death the earth is beginning to experience now. For the energy industry, the mantra is fossil fuels provide good jobs, good incomes for families. But, those jobs, and the fuels they produce are killing us, polluting land, sea and air. And what sort of future are they giving our children and grand children. People like Porter see corporations and their profits as sacrosanct. They protect their corrupt practices with religious zeal." Dole leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. Jaw set.

“But he mentioned the petition signed by 17,000 scientist and that Oregon institute.” Janean felt she had to say something.”

Dole burst out laughing as did the others. The librarian blushed. “That institute is a warehouse for a holistic health group out in the middle of nowhere. Anyone who wants to call them self a scientist can sign on.”

Janean cringed at the heat of Dole’s arguments. Couldn’t he hear some of the logic of Mr. Porter?  Was there no middle ground in this argument?

 “Well, does that mean that you were not swayed by Porters facts and logic?” Mary asked Dole. The table broke into laughter, but not the librarian. She looked from face to face, why don’t I feel the same way?

USE CHALMERS HOLMES, PROFESSOR AT THE COLLEGE IN THE ABOVE SCENE?

CHAPTER 14

Janean found a little used corner of the adult reading room. She and her small group of teens sat in a circle on the floor. “I wanted to start you off by putting you to work.”

“Work!” Flyman hit Grunge in the shoulder. “You didn’t say anything about work.” Flyman’s normally deep voice went up several octaves each time he spoke the word work.

“No, you misunderstood. I will give each of you a card,” She  began passing them around. “If you would list a favorite author or title, or a type of book…some of you may not want to write anything. That’s okay.” She gave the non-reading skateboarder a quick sideways look.

Flyman grunted, “That’s good, ‘cause I got nothin’ to write.”

“Fly, that’s fine.” Janean reassured. The others, had their heads down, pens scratching away. Grunge eyed the circle, writing down one quick note. Darlene flipped her card over going far beyond the minimum.

The session was then opened to a discussion of favorite books. Each felt that their author was the best that had ever lived. There were exceptions.  Flyman indicated he had time only for riding his board. Grunge was embarrassed to admit to reading a wide verity of fiction and non-fiction. Darlene held back, everyone knew of her voracious reading habits.

 “Where I lived before, when we were kids the librarians had parties. They always had a theme. I think that a Blackbeard party would be so much fun.” Stacey Parker enthused. “We could tell pirate stories and have a treasure hunt.”

“Why Blackbeard? I think of him marauding the islands of the Caribbean, not New England. Am I mistaken.” I must have missed this aspect of New England history.

Stacey put her hands on her hips. “Oh, Miss Clark, you are so mistaken. Blackbeard plundered the entire East coast, including New England. It is said that there are unclaimed treasure troves buried on our coastal  islands and in our isolated bays.” The girl went on to outline all the activities for the evening. The other teens were in awe of the details presented.

Janean knew when she was being put in her place. She would have to watch her words with this one. “And how late will this party run. You have quite a few games planned.”

“Miss Clark, I think we should have a sleepover.” Darlene proposed. “I talked to my Mom, and kids at school. They thought it was a great idea. It would really bring kids back to the library. Get them reading again.”

Janean froze. Sleepover, all night. Chambers would have my head. It couldn’t possibly happen. Attempting to be democratic, the brainstorming seemed to be going beyond the bounds of sensible party planning. She smiled, she nodded, what have I done now? Back in the Village she had put on many such events. They were fun, a positive way to build cohesion within the group. And they were never the orgies that some concerned adults envisioned. Getting this by Chambers, I don’t see it happening. Not in my lifetime.

***

Janean was never a Boy Scout, she was a girl. However, she lived by the code: be prepared. Sitting across the desk from Miss Chambers, she had a folder, filled with articles from library journals and newspapers. All extolled the benefits of the sleepover concept. It was fun, encouraged library use and reading. It also publicized the library and it’s other services. She kept telling herself, there is no way she can turn this down.

Mary Smart sat next to the Teen Librarian. Darlene had insisted that her mother provide moral and political support. Chambers couldn’t possibly turn down a project proposed by the Smart family, a project sure to win the endorsement of the newly empowered library board.

They will sit there and wait. Chambers leafed through the library annual report, fountain pen in hand she made notations on a ledger next to the report. She cleared her throat. “Yes, and how may I help you?” She placed the cap on her pen.

Janean began with an explanation of the Teen program, efforts to contact students, bring them to the library. She went into a description of the young people and their brainstorming sessions. Here it comes. Janean almost laughed. In her head she had the vision of an anarchist throwing a bomb with a fuse sizzling away. She was going to make her proposal and then run for cover.

“Our teen group has proposed what is called a sleepover party.” Janean announced.

Chambers’ right hand shot into the air. Halt! Stop! Go no further she was communicating. “Sleepover?” It was near to a shout. Her face took on a vague look. Her eyes squinted, her brow furrowed. “Sleepover?” She repeated with the same question mark. “What language are you speaking?”

Janean suddenly realized that she was speaking to a woman, someone between her parents and grandmothers generation. Further, she was a woman who had no experience in child rearing or the contemporary culture. Where do I go from here?

Mary Smart stepped in, she could sense Janean floundering. “Miss Chambers, a sleepover is an event where everyone is invited to attend and spend the night.”

“Uhh!” Miss Chambers gasped. Both hands on the arms of her chair, thrust forward, face red and veins throbbing in her throat. “Never!” She shouted. “You young people are turning my library into a brothel. This will never, never happen!”

“Miss Chambers, you have a bad habit of referring to this as your library. It is not yours. It is the property of the people of Somerset. I don’t care about the Chambers family and their long history of supporting this town. We all know that there is also a history of your family abusing  the local environment and the people they employed.”

“I have spoken Mrs. Smart, there will be no sleeping business in my library.” She rose to her feet and leaned across the desk.  “And, as long as I am alive, and I am the director, this library will be mine. And mine alone.” She pointed to the door. “You can leave now Mrs. Smart. I have had enough of you. And Miss Clark, you will return to your desk. I will not hear another word on this subject.”

Mary stood, she glared at Chambers. “I am calling for an emergency meeting of the library board. Your dictatorial practices can not continue. You have limits Miss Chambers. Your reign of terror is coming to an end.”

Chambers didn’t respond. With a haughty smirk and a nod she directed her two guests to leave her office.

***

“And she didn’t let me get to the Blackbeard theme. I thought for sure the local history would get her support.” Janean spoke as she and Mary walked down the hallway. Neither laughed. They knew that they were going to be facing enough trouble as it was.

 CHAPTER 14

Somber faces were worn by the board members seated around the conference table. Janean sat in a chair away from the table, not being a member. In her lap she held the documentation she never had an opportunity to present to the director.

       Mary Smart had advised the board of her concerns. A Teen Librarian had been hired. However, Miss Chambers was doing her best to circumvent actual services.

The meeting scheduled for 5:00 p.m., had yet to begin. The board awaited the presence of Miss Chambers. Mr. Gilcrest slipped his watch from his vest pocket, then looked to the door. Janean pulled at her sleeve and turned her wrist, sixteen minutes late. Mary Smart tapped on her note filled legal pad with her pen. The other board members twisted and turned in their chairs.

Moments later the Director came to the door, “Oh! Am I late?”

The board chairman smiled. “Right on time.”

Mary Smart failed to suppress a groan.

Chambers sat, “And what is the reason for this meeting?” She barked.

Mary focused on Miss Chambers. “As you are well aware, we…” Mary looked around the table, ignoring Gilcrest, “the library board authorized the hiring of a librarian to serve our teen population. It has been brought to my attention and other board members that you are preventing Miss Clark from performing her duties.”

It was a painful meeting, Janean sitting at the side of the room. For much of the meeting she was the subject, up for discussion. However, she was not allowed to participate. Mary thought it would be best that she avoid confrontation with the director.

The proposed sleepover was discussed. There was laughter, and sly smiles. The days of New England bundling boards, no doubt running through their heads. Mary presented news articles and documentation from other libraries. There were no problems recorded. However, there were many positive responses from parents and young people.

The board chairman and Miss Chambers found themselves swimming against a strong tide. The board endorsed the sleepover and reminded the director that Miss Clark should be allowed to perform her duties unimpeded.

***

 “You must listen to me.” Gilcrest fidgeted with his pocket watch and scowled at Chambers. “This Clark woman could be dangerous for the both of us. You must stop thinking of children and parties. That librarian was in my shop asking questions. She had a list of books, each one came from the basement.”

 “What list? How could she know?” Chambers sputtered. Gilcrest could only shrug.  Chambers’ tall frame shrunk into her chair, head lolling. “What has Mrs. Smart done. Has she known all along. Is that why this Clark woman was brought up here from New York, to sneak about where she doesn’t belong. She is an insubordinate gutter snipe.”

Gilcrest leaned across the table. “You said you had everything taken care of. No one would ever trace the books. You obliterated all records for the items.”

“It has to be an accident. These young people with there electronics, computers and phones. She could never decipher our system. She gave you a list that just happened to correspond to our transactions.” Chambers chewed on the stem of her glasses. “It has to be an accident.”

***

He was in the closet. He had been there for hours. Laughing to himself, I’m smarter than they think. Months ago he had drilled a small  hole in the door. He could hear and see everything that went on in the board meetings. Not much of a reader or writer, he remembered everything he heard and saw.

Tee-hee-hee! His silent laugh. I’ll get well paid for this one. Eye at the hole, he could see Chambers and Gilcrest leave the now darkened room.

***

Can’t win for losing, Janean thought. They had prevailed against the director last week. The sleepover was moving along, Darlene and friends were gathering names of friends who would be attending. It looked to be a great success. However, the atmosphere in the library felt super-fund toxic. The quiet treatment she had received before had morphed into blatant hostility.

Now this! Ethan Taylor, star reporter for the Somerset Press, slouched in a chair across from Janean. She found it difficult to be in the same room with him. Experience with the man told her to expect the stretching of facts, the insertion of unnecessary flourishes, and the stock phrases any article couldn't seem do without. Her last interview contained fabrication, upon fabrication, she didn't recognize one word as her own. And now, just as she had returned to her office, she found him sifting through the paperwork on her desk. She thought of his history, his rise and precipitous fall, she tried to feel sorry for him, but couldn't.

Sitting, apprising one another, he gave her a toothy grin, "Reading the library board minutes I was literally dumbfounded. A library sleepover for teenagers. I literally couldn't believe anyone would be so stupid. A building filled with girls, and boys high on testosterone. I had to phone Miss Chambers to verify that I wasn't literally losing my mind." A smirk interrupted his tirade. Janean was ready to invite his immediate departure. And that without a question being asked, "literally.”

They sat in the Teen Librarians cramped office. She raised her hand suggesting a pause, "Mr. Taylor do you have a question for me?"

He shuffled through his note pad, "Yes. You have actually proposed this...sleepover?"

"Yes." She stated. He looked up from his note pad expecting more. He scowled.

"Do you anticipate problems with young boys and girls, wandering off into corners. There is no telling what sort of havoc could ensue?"

"No." He tapped his pencil on his note pad.

"Is that all you can say, yes and no?"

"No." She smiled her best. "You keep asking closed-ended question, yes and no works fine with me. He leaned back. “If you were to ask open-ended questions you might get more from me.”

"Oh.” The light went on inside his head. Back to his notes, tapping the pad.  "Okay, what are your plans for the evening?"

“We will have some games the kids designed themselves. Darlene Smart is quite a story teller, she will be filling her friends with tales of Pirates and other horrors. And then..." Janean went into further details on how the evening would be filled out, with the avoidance of murder and mayhem. She reviewed her notes to verify that she hit all the details then smiled at the reporter to indicate she was finished.

"What security arrangements have you made? Police patrolling the outside. Fire department conducting fire watches." He asked and Janean's shoulders slumped. Hadn't she just explained her trust in the young people.

"These are good kids, responsible young adults, I have worked with them for several months. They won't let me down. And no, I have no plans for police, fire or National Guard protection." He gave her a smug look. She sensed he was already spinning out stories: Teenagers run amok in town library, birth rate to rise dramatically. Or: Beloved town library burned to the ground, rampaging teens to blame.

Taylor closed his notebook put away his pencil and rose, “Well, I hope that you know what you are doing. The Library Director indicated that she was absolving herself of all responsibility.” With that Janean was pleased to show him to the door and send him on his way.

 CHAPTER 15

Janean had spent the day preparing for the overnight festivities. Darlene Smart had helped, ensuring that all the details were cared for. This would be an evening that would draw the young people together, and one that would be unforgettable. She looked around the room, decorations, games, refreshments, everything was just perfect. “Miss Clark.” The steely voice of Miss Bennett brought Janean back to reality.

A smirk twitched at the side of Bennett’s mouth. “Miss Chambers wishes to meet with you.” Janean looked around the room. This is bad timing. “Now Miss Clark!” Came the demand.

***

Miss Chambers was ensconced behind her desk, seated regally in her leather office chair. A straight backed wooden chair had been placed for Janean on the other side of the desk. There is something going on here, something special. She sat and squirmed for a moment. They found the most uncomfortable chair in the library. Definitely a message here.

“Miss Clark, I was forced by the library board to hire you. I warned Mrs. Smart that you would be required to perform to the highest professional standards. I would not accept anything less. I am concerned only with the needs and expectations of the citizens of Somerset.”

“Miss Clark, you have failed me and my fellow citizens. Your attire is a disgrace. You insist upon wearing that frumpy sweater thing.” The directors fore finger came up and pointed to Janean’s favored cardigan. “Logging boots and tennis shoes, you cavort about as if you are a bohemian. And don’t think I am unaware of your use of that phone thing.” Again the pointing finger, along with a sneering lip. What century are you living in Miss Chambers? “ Those are but a few of your many instances of insubordination. I will not accept this any longer. Your services with the Somerset Library are terminated tomorrow morning. You will complete your affair with these incorrigible ruffians and leave my library for good.”

Janean, eyes moistening, she attempted to protest but only puffs of air crossed her lips. “Ba. Ba.” She bleated. Get hold of yourself Janean Clark. You can do better than this.

Chambers pushed a letter across the desk. “You will be seeking employment elsewhere. This is your letter of recommendation. I was bound by conscience to outline your deficiencies and lack of professionalism. I would suggest you find another profession. You do not posses the commitment to public service or the attention to detail that librarianship requires.”

There it is. The red haze was enveloping her field of vision. Her face, flushed with heat. Her hands clenched in her lap. She gritted her teeth, don’t move, don’t say a thing. Breathing in and out, thinking of the surf, the haze began to dissipate.

“Miss Clark! Have you nothing to say? Will you not read my letter?

Janean attempted to relax in the stiff chair.  “Miss Chambers, I apologize for being the modern, professional that I am. You have allowed the Somerset Library to be stalled in a bygone era. You have imposed your reality on a town that deserves much better.

“I will do as you ask. Professional that I am, I will go out there with the teenagers, and complete our program as planned. I will leave tomorrow, with sorrow for Somerset. A town that could be offered so much more. More than you are willing to give.

***

Janean forced the meeting with Chambers from her thoughts. Tonight was for and about the kids. She wanted to this to be special and memorable. In time, with the passing of Chambers and her entourage, real library services might come to Somerset.

The reading room was crowded with excited teens, girls on one side, boys on the other, Janean observed. Isn’t that the way it always is. Darlene was handing out colored ID bracelets. These were going to resolve the segregation by sexes. At least that was the hoped for result.

Then the lights went out. Some squealed, some shouted and Darlene demanded, “Fly turn those lights on right this minute.” In the best drill sergeant tone.

“How’d you know it was me?” Flyman asked through  his eruption of laughter. He came from the far corner swinging an object. It was two wooden handles with a thin wire between.

“It’s always you Fly.”

Janean asked, “What do you have there Fly?” He handed over the item. Holding the handles a shiver went down her spine. “Fly, this is not a toy. Way beyond a toy. I’ll put it on my desk. You can have it back when you leave.”

“Whatever,” Flyman grumbled, “Just a thing.”

Janean sat to the side, observing the young people, they were taking charge, making the evening their own. The librarian was gratified by their self sufficiency and cooperation. 

Following several icebreaker games, Darlene was getting everyone into the fun. She had formed the kids into a circle. They sat  on the floor of the story room, drawn around her. With a whisper she began her story. “A friend of mine lived in Salem, Massachusetts, she told me this story, I know it’s true.” Her eyes, stretched wide moved around the circle, gaining everyone’s attention. “A boy drove his girlfriend to Lovers' Lane for...you know…” She looked to Grunge, she blushed. He chuckled to himself thinking about Darlene and her soft, sweet mouth.

“I don’t know Darlene, tell me.” Flyman taunted. Grunge gave him an elbow and a frown. “Sorry man!” The boarder offered with no remorse.

From behind Janean encouraged, “Go on Darlene.”

Darlene cleared her throat and went back to whispering her story. “When they arrived at the lane he turned on the radio, setting the mood, he leaned over and began kissing his girl.”

Darlene bent low, her face again circling the room, her voice even lower, “A short while later, the music stopped, the excited voice of the announcer came on, warning that a murderer had just escaped from the state mental hospital, not far from Lovers' Lane. Anyone seeing a strange man with a hook in place of his right hand should immediately report his whereabouts to the police.”

All eyes were on the story teller, “The girl became frightened and asked to go home. The boy, the macho type, laughed and locked the doors instead, assuring his date they would be safe. Then he attempted to go back to where the passion had left off. The girl became frantic and pushed him away, insisting that they leave immediately. Giving up, the boy started the car, jammed it into gear and sped off. The girl thought she heard a cat-like yowl as they raced from the lane.”

Darlene moved in closer, eyes open wide, “When they arrived at the girl's house she got out of the car, and reaching to close the door, she began to scream uncontrollably. The boy ran to her side to see what was wrong. There--dangling from the door handle, was a bloody hook.”

The girls screamed. The lights went out. Footsteps pounded across the floor. More screams and cries came from the youngest. “I got him!” Grunge shouted.

“Dude! What’s the matter with you?” Flyman protested. The two young men were wrestling on the floor.

“I thought you were the Hook!” Grunge laughed as he released his friend.

 “Fly were you playing with the lights?” Janean called out.

"No ma'am! I was on the other side of the room." He insisted as he burst into his raucous, snorting laugh. Standing, brushing at his clothes he said, "Dude the way those girls screamed was just so cool." He swiped at his nose with the back of his hand. “So righteous.” He was unable to control his braying guffaw.

"Someone turned them off." Janean grumbled.  “Grunge, could you find the switch.”

"Darlene and Joanne, you do the drinks and cookies, when Grunge gets the lights.

Janean was amazed that Miss Chambers had not stormed from her office. Hopefully she went home. The Teen Librarian had assumed that the director would stay all night to insure the safety and moral standing of her building.

“I'll be back in a few minutes." Janean wanted to be assured that all doors were locked, and none of her troop had committed larceny in the dark.

“Ms Clark, I'll go with you, don't want the ghost getting you.” Grunge offered.

“Thanks Grunge, but I'll be fine, get some refreshments, and you are in charge of the light switch. She went to her desk to get a copy of the master key for the building, looking at her desktop something was missing, “Hmm.” Grabbing the key she began a sweep of the building, if Flyman or his friends didn’t flick the switch, who did? She didn’t go by the Directors office, she would avoid stoking Chambers anger if she was still there.

The door to the local history room was unlocked, that shouldn’t be. Janean shoulders slumped; she would have to guarantee that a stray teen had not sneaked onto the sacred grounds. She got a chill thinking of the rare books being vandalized. Not something she would want on her soon to be composed resume.

TOO MUCH HUMMING

Janean hummed to herself going down the stairs; yes she was going to be without a job; but on the bright side the tormenting from the Wicked Witch of the West would end. A cynical smile invaded her face. Thoughts then turned to the sleepover, things were moving along. Not bad! As a matter of fact she was proud, all the obstacles placed in her path by the Director were removed. The kids were creative, especially Darlene, and they were cooperating. Yeah, this is progressing nicely. Halfway down, she met a cold updraft of air. She stopped and  pulled her cardigan tight. “Brr!” The trek continued. At the bottom she turned on the lights and began the survey. All was in order, with the exception of the frigid zephyr coursing through the room. Janean found the source, an open window. Below the window was a kick stool toppled on its side. Pulling over the stool she stretched up to pull the window down. This was puzzling, there was no reason for it to be open, cold and humidity could damage the fragile books. Stepping to the floor she turned and walk toward the last aisle. A quick glance. She sucked in a ragged breath. She turned away. A knot gripped at her stomach. She swayed. Her hand took hold of the shelf. It’s my imagination, I’m seeing things. I’m letting Darlene’s horror stories infect my realm of logic. She pulled herself together, calming the flutter inside, then standing she went back to clarify the image. Wash away this fantasy, she willed. She peered around the corner, wishing it not to be. It was, just as she had seen. There was no undoing the reality. The contorted body was a very grim reality. The corpse was attired in austere clothing that would belong only to Miss Chambers.

With one hand on the shelf she worked her way to where the twisted form lay. The sculpture, Saint Cecilia’s Martyrdom flooded her mind. She looked upon the bulging unseeing eyes and convulsed mouth of the deceased Library Director. She was deceased! The contorted face had a purplish hue, and pearls of blood laced the garrote that cut into the neck. Janean’s hands went to her mouth, feeling her stomach, heave and churn, she sprinted to the staircase.

At the top step Janean reached for the door handle. No! Think. She turned and sat.  I can’t panic the kids, this is going to be traumatic as is. And she needed to make the dreaded 911 call. Using deep breathing, less any mantras, she found her inner core. And Miss Chambers…well she was not in need of immediate attention. Her innards began to settle. She thought of the victim down there, why? Well she could think of some reasons why, she might have been tempted herself, to late now. Yeah, well the lady wasn’t too nice for starters, but do you kill someone because they’re not nice? Why? She stood, opened the door and began laying out in her brain what would have to be done, call the police, calm the kids, get the kids home, and talking to investigators all night long. Why me!?

***

“Miss Clark are you okay? You look pale.” Darlene said, taking hold of Janean’s elbow.

“I’ll be fine, I have a favor to ask, could you tell another story and keep things going. I need to make a phone call.” She tried to muster up a reassuring smile for her volunteer.

“Sure Miss Clark. I have another good story.” Darlene had a malicious smirk.

Janean looked at her young group, she thought how sad it was that their night would be cut short, ruined by this unimaginable act. They would find themselves in time to be a part of Somerset history. She looked over to the phone on her desk, too public, the kids would hear. She would use the phone in Miss Chambers’ office. Miss Chambers’ office no longer.

***

“This is Janean Clark at the Somerset Library, there has been a murder.” You sound like a recorded message. She gnawed on a finger nail. Reporting the events, going over the details was going to be difficult, she could feel her hands shake, and there was a flutter in her voice. This is not the sort of activity one was trained for in library school.

“Yes, at the library.” She rolled her eyes.

“I know she is dead, her ample breast were not budging, she looked to be very, very dead.”

“Pulse, I’m not touching a dead person, she is a crime scene, I’ve read enough murder mysteries, last thing you want to do is touch the body.” Pulse, she could feel blood pounding at her temples.

“She has a garrote around her neck; her face is purple, there is blood at the ligature.” She felt like she was going to loose it, hands, voice and now the stomach thing. Damn!

“No, I don't think an ambulance will be necessary…that’s right, I’m not a doctor.” She began talking with her hands hoping they somehow would convey the message over the phone lines.

“I think we need the police here. Like right now! We have a building full of kids, and you are about to push me over the edge, just get someone here!” She slammed down the receiver. Janean collapsed back into the late Directors oversized leather chair.

CHAPTER 16

“Ma’am, if you will wait here the detective will be right with you.” She had talked with the officer off and on for over an hour, what more was there to be said. The director was dead, someone came and went through the open window. What more could she say. She and the kids had all been upstairs. No they did not see Miss chambers or anyone else going to the rare books room. The pain in here head was reaching the unbearable. Eyes closed, her finger massaged her temples. She wished this night would go away.

Janean had been isolated to the late director’s office. Sitting in a guest chair her eyes browsed over the room. The chairs, desks, the wooden display cabinet, all the objects appeared to have substance to them. She knew that many of the objects in the room were fifty or sixty years old. Books in the case were no doubt several hundreds of years old. Now, one action had morphed the real into the unreal. There was no permanence, all was fleeting. The death…murder, had transformed all this into a mirage, a vague semblance of reality.

The librarian’s reverie was interrupted by raucous laughter out by the circulation desk. The hideous sound stirred unpleasant memories.

Janean suggested to herself that even she could not be so lacking in luck. Without looking up she could sense the mass entering the room. Sure, as if the luck of the Clarks didn’t came through once again.

Officer Kane took a few steps into the room, with pursed lips he assessed how he would proceed with his witness or is she the prime suspect. The recent fiasco of a ride along would have to be forgotten. He then thought of the exercise class, he most certainly had a good grasp of her calf muscles, and adjacent assets. I’m a professional; the tight body, I gotta put aside. This is serious business.

The cop sat at the late directors desk, he gave his notes careful consideration, and then with a smile “Miss Clark, do you consider yourself hotsy-totsy.”

Janean’s eyes squinted down to narrow slits, she was tired, she had been dealing with stupid questions, repeated stupid questions for hours. Now this clown asks, “Do you consider yourself hotsy-totsy.” Her face flushed, her fingers gripped the arms of the chair, she wanted to catapult herself across the desk and sink her not so long nails into his smirking face. She knew she lacked the energy, instead her head dropped to a supporting hand, the back of the other hand wiped at the drool that was beginning to form at the side of her mouth. She recognized the early signs of exhaustion or hysteria.

“Hunh!” She grunted out.

He referred back to his notes, “Dispatch said you were being hotsy-totsy, using big words, trying to play doctor and cop all at the same time. So, are you…you know hotsy-totsy?”

She couldn’t control her head, it lolled from side to side. She wanted to scream, this was devolving into a never ending Kafkaesque nightmare. “I talked to that other officer for over an hour, it’s late I’m tired, and then you start off with a horses-ass question. Cut the shit, get to the real questions, or I’m going to collapse into an emotional puddle here.”

“Hmm. Just trying to break the ice.” Kane muttered. “We’ll come back to that one.” He went back to his notes, she groaned.

“So, tell me about Miss Chambers, did you get along well with her?”

Janean dug her thumb nail into the arm of the chair, glancing away from the Detective. "No." She looked at him. "No, we did not work together well." She crossed her arms and leaned back. "Miss Chambers was unhappy, she was forced by the library board to hire me. She hates children, and teenagers are a foreign species."

"Yeah, I get that. I'm asking about you specifically, how did you get along with the director?" He sighed and looked to his notebook.

"As I said we didn't work well together. I wanted a program that served the needs of the teens. She wanted to treat the teens as if they were adults. Give them a dusty old classic book and shove them in a corner, ‘out of sight, out of mind.’ My mother liked to say that." She attempted and exhausted smile.

"We argued, disagreed on the book collection, activities, even on how I dressed. She wanted her staff to dress "professionally", I felt that such attire would scare the kids off. I like to get down on the floor where they like to read, text-message, all that. Chambers didn't get it, understand their interest, how to relate to them."

"And?"

"And what?" She asked

"What was Chambers intent, what were her plans for you."

"Oh, that! She fired me. She wanted me out of town before the Library Board knew what had happened. Mary Smart and most of the other board members are at a conference this week, Mr. Gilcrest is the only one that didn't attend. He would be the last person to come to my defense." She started digging her nail into the arm again.

Kane chewed on the inside of his mouth for a moment, cogitating, “You need to walk me through the basement; what you did, what you saw.”

The librarian slumped forward, elbows on knees cradling a head that was threatening a volcanic eruption. “I can’t do this, just one nightmare after another.”

They stood, the detective walked behind her, resting his hand on her shoulder. “Won’t take long, you made it through my exercise class…you can do anything now.” It was a sad attempt at boosting her deflated spirits.

“Yeah,” she did a zombie-like walk down the hallway, Kane following.

Janean placed one hand on the door to the historical collection below, the other swiped at her forehead. “Do we have to.” Her eyes pleaded.

“Yeah. Well, we have to. I need to know what you did. What you saw.” He nodded to the door.

Janean’s chin trembled. “Is she down there? Her body?” Her eyes were tearing up, her hands shaking.

“No. The body has been removed.” Kane assured.

   Janean and Officer Kane went down the steps, then stood at the foot of the stairs. He made a cursory scan of the area, pointing with his pen. “Okay Miss Clark, tell me about the weapon…the wire thing?”

“The garrote…it’s called a garrote.” She corrected. The investigator was not building a level of confidence in her. His rumpled jacket, that look of confusion on his face, not the professional aura one would want in a murder investigation.

“Whatever…” He tapped his pen on his note pad. “You said you saw it before.”

“It was upstairs. Flyman, one of the kids brought it as a prop for our murder mystery game.”

“Ironic, hmm!” Kane interrupted. “Flyman…one of those skateboarders, think I’ve rousted him a few times.” Janean felt this rural sleuth, rouster of  skateboarders was over his head on this one.

“I took the garrote away from him, it was creepy…dangerous looking, I put it on my desk, that was the last time I saw it.” She remembered the look and feel of it in her hands. It gave her an icy chill to realize what it could be used for. She forced the recurring image away, the image of how it was used.

“That was the last time you saw it, until you found it wrapped around the victims neck?”

“Well, yes, of course.” A hand went to her mouth, just thinking about the body, the Director’s face made her stomach lurch. She took in a few breaths to ease the involuntary reaction.

Kane smirked, “Not a pretty sight.”

Janean gave the officer a drop dead look. “Are you always so comforting?”

Pointing with his chin he said, “Over here, show me the window that was open and the step stool you used.”

From a distance she pointed to the far window and the only stool in sight, she had no interest in approaching the scene of the crime. She turned to Kane, her eyes requesting a reprieve.

Kane pulled at his stubbled chin and shook his head, “We can’t do this by telegraph. As much as you might be spooked by the scene, you will have to go in there with me. The body is gone; there are only a few spots of blood on the carpet.”

Only a few drops. I don’t want any reminders of what went on there. Yesterday, murder was a game, today it is a mind numbing reality; she shuffled along close to the wall. At the window Janean noted the black residue of fingerprint powder, covering the window frame and surrounding wall. “This is the window,” She pointed up, and then nodded at the solo stool below.

“Okay,” Kane inhaled, he stretched throwing up the window, allowing a blast of cold air to enter the room. Janean cringed, thinking of the well being of the books. “Show me! Where was the stool when you got to this point?”

She pulled the stool out, away from the wall several feet and tipped it on its side. She hadn’t noticed that the stool had been dusted along with the window frame. She brushed at the greasy residue in her hands. “There, that is about where I found it. In a line under the window, but tipped over.”

“Forget that for now, well get you cleaned up later.” He stared at the stool.” Not a very stable step stool,” He  tipped it upright, and kicked at it with his foot, “Moves right around.”

Janean stood on it, “Now give it a kick.” He did and it didn’t budge.

“Hmm.”

“When a person stands on it the weight pushes the base down, the wheels retract, take the weight off the wheels go down. Simple!”

She stepped down and Kane maneuvered it with his foot. “Hunh.” He was amused by his new toy. He tipped the stool over again where Janean had placed it. “Show me what you did next.”

She went through the routine, placing the stool, stepping onto it, stretching up, pushing the window closed. He took notes as she explained what she saw and did. As she stepped down he invited her to follow him to the last aisle. She hesitated; she went into her deep breathing mode, composing mind and body. Kane nodded, indicating she should lead the way.

She looked to where she had found Miss Chambers, she had difficulty thinking of her in generalized terms, the body, or the victim. She was not fond of the woman, but she felt she deserved a name. “I looked down the aisle, I saw her, Miss Chambers, I recognized her clothing from there.”  She stared at the carpet, a few beads of blood, the victim outline, and the books that had been knocked to the floor.

Janean thought of Chamber’s last few seconds, legs kicking, fingers grasping at the wire constricting life from her body. What a horrible way to die. Did Chambers know the person that did this?

Janean shook her head as she stared at the chalked outline, a depiction of where Chamber’s body lay. At her feet lay a scattering of books. Above on the shelf was a gap, no doubt caused by the Directors hands pulling at any straw for help. And one book lone book lay at her side. Miss Chambers died here with her prized books. Perhaps she was protecting her collection, the last act of the librarian’s life, that would be a noble end to ones career, ones life. Kane coughed bringing her back to the present. “May I place these back on the shelf?” She pointed to the books.

Kane gave her the Okay nod, she knelt and began shuffling the books into order and placing them back on the shelf. When she stood she had one title in her hand.

“What’s wrong with that one.” He asked.

Janean looked at the one book that had been at Chamber’s side. “It seems to be out of order, I’ll shelve it later.”

“Yeah,” Kane gave a vague nod. “Yeah. Do that.”

The Officer indicated he was finished in the basement, he looked around the room, one last time, his brow furrowed, “Why the special room down here, locked doors…?”

“These are the local history books, some are rare, going back to the colonial period…rare and valuable items.”

“Huh.” Kane responded with insight.

Janean flipped off the light switch as they went up the stairs. Guy lives here all his life and he has no sense of the library or its history.

Dullard! Janean thought of Washington Irving’s, Legend of Sleepy Hollow. She would cast the Detective as Brom Bones.

They stood at Janean’s desk, Kane was taking more notes. “Don’t leave town, I’ll have more questions.” He didn’t remove his eyes from the note pad. Janean slumped, she had no job, she had to eat, pay the rent.

“She fired me. I don’t have a job, I can’t stay long without an income.” She became aware of the book in her hand, she laid it on her desk.

Kane chewed on the top of his pen. “I’ll talk to Mary Smart, see what the library board wants to do?” Kane had seen the letter on Chambers desk. The board would have to determine her job status. He shrugged, librarians.

“So I’ll be dealing with you, you’ll be doing the investigation?”

“Well—kinda. State Police will send an investigator over from the Augusta Police barracks.” Kane did his stomach rub and took out one of his chalky tablets. “Yeah, they’ll send over a guy. We’ll work together. I’ll end up doing the heavy lifting.” He smirked and puffed out his chest.

“The state is already on the scene investigating the resort fire. It’s arson. I got a note, someone wanting to take credit. Who wants to stake claim to such a crime. They polluted the air, all that smoke, no telling what else. Some eco freak. Damn treehuggers are making my life miserable.!” He rubbed at his stomach again, why do they take so long to kick in!

GOT STATE POLICE IN ABOVE SCENE?

CHAPTER 17

The alarm had sounded from Janean’s iPod, far too early, bringing her to a semicomatose reality. Her brain was in a fog, she was tired, sleep had been fitful, populated by images of Miss Chambers ghoulish spirit haunting the nooks and crannies of her head.

She sat in the office of Detective Dan Kane. This is the last place in the world I want to be. “Sure you don't want a cup,” Officer Dan blew steam across the rim of his mug. “It's hot.”

She rolled her eyes. “It may be hot, but it is also well aged, I could smell it baking away when I came in the front door, nothing worse.” Kane shrugged as he sorted through papers on his desk. The early morning sunlight shone into her face, lulling her into thoughts of slumber. She dozed, her supporting elbow slipping from the chair, jolting her head, she jerking herself awake with a start. That got the Detectives attention.

He smirked, “This coffee is guaranteed to keep you awake.” He took a slug, and then was back to sorting through his papers.

IS THIS TOO SOON TO LET HER OFF THE HOOK. NEED MORE EVIDENCE?

He contorted his face, rubbed his brow and adjusted himself in his chair. He then cleared his throat, causing Janean to jump again.  “Well,” He intoned, “You don't seem to be my prime suspect at this time.” He leaned back, crossing his arms, “Problem is…now I don't have a prime ... you know…suspect.” He sighed.

“Does that mean I can go back to New York.”

“Well, what it means is you are not the prime suspect now, you...and everyone at the library are still potential suspects. Do you read mystery novels?”

“Most librarians do, seems to go with the job.”

“And when there is an investigation ... ?”

“Yeah, everyone is a suspect.” Her eyes turned to the ceiling and dropped down to face her interrogator. She couldn't believe that this was happening to her, a librarian. Librarians are not suspected of murder. Most people don't suspect librarians of doing much of anything.  We are a boring lot, people that don’t live real lives.

“The investigation continues, no one leaves town, I will be asking questions, and looking at evidence reports,” His chin rested on his chest as he assessed the papers stacked on his desk, “Cases like this can stretch on for years until a piece of evidence is found, or a memory is jogged.” He gave her an all knowing nod, he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“Years.” Janean groaned. Mr. Gilcrest, and library staff were not making her feel at home, she wasn't sure she was going to last years in Somerset.

(does she still have a job at this point? How does she stay in town with no means of support)

Autopsy Report

Janeane held her hand to her head, she did have a headache. Why did he keep having these appointments early in the morning, and the sun in my eyes? Perhaps they taught this at the police academy? How to torture the civilians. “Could I have some coffee this morning, my head…it is aching.”? With her right hand she was rubbing circles on her forehead. Darkness circled her eyes, no makeup, and her hair had only a coarse brushing. Now her head would ache in earnest, not to mention the pain to her stomach. It had to be done, all for the cause.

“Sure.” Officer Dan was surprised by her interest in the department’s coffee, nothing but complaints prior. He slipped, as best a man of his size could slip, from his chair and out to the improvised break closet. He lifted the hot, empty carafe, though he would never think to use the word. “Sophie!” He shouted out in the hallway.

Headphones clamped tight, the clerk and sometimes dispatcher leaned back from her cubicle chair, and stared down the hall, giving Kane her best death ray look. “Do I look like I got time to fix the little boy his coffee?” She disappeared into her cube leaving Kane to master the brewer.

Kane whimpered. He filled the coffee maker with water, added grounds from the open can to the filter, and switched the machine back on. He then waited, and waited, and waited with no sign of patience.

“Here we go.” He returned with his fresh, canned coffee. Janean gave her best impersonation of a smile. She held the mug in her hands, the warmth was appreciated, the processed aroma was not. He sat behind his organized desk, mug in hand and look of self satisfaction on his face.

“Now let’s see.” He glanced across the neatly stacked reports, some in folders, some single paged, some several pages stapled together. There was a twitch at the side of his mouth, a momentary focus, and then he leaned back. He seemed to have lost his train of thought.

Janean took a sip of the coffee, offered a weak smile, clearing her throat. “You were saying…” Maybe that would bring him back to where his memory faded away.

Kane took a pencil from his desk, and began rapping out a tattoo on the edge of a folder. His demeanor had changed, the affable Officer Kane had taken on a defensive mode. Janean took another sip of the vile brew, someone needed to train these people how to brew real coffee.  The Coffee, the room, she was beginning to sweat. The cops musical interlude was doing nothing to ease her unease. Say something Kane!

His pencil continued the rap, rap, rap. It put him into his thinking zone, that and his tongue, rubbing the inside of his cheek. “Okay, about my suspect list…?” he said as if ordering carrot cake at the Higher Grounds. Janeane lowered the mug to her lap, squeezing. Now the room was hot. What did he know? What could he know, I’m innocent, I’m a librarian! He used the pencil to point to one stack, then twisted it air making circles. “Autopsy report, the director, the late director Miss Chambers dies, you are on the scene instantaneously. Hmm.”? The pencil went back to its tapping mode. “Fingerprints on the weapon, yours and that kid…Grunge. Why don’t kids use real names: Frank, Benny, Joe? What kinda name is Grunge? The open window, more prints from you.”

He fell quiet. The room was quiet and hot, the ticking of his watch seemed deafening. He didn’t look at her, but she sensed that his psyche was latching on to every misfire of her neurons. And they were misfiring. Does he want a confession? I did it, cuff me, read me my rights!   She felt as though she was spiraling down into a black hole.

He jolted her awake, “You know the routine, don’t leave town, I call you come in for another one of these chats.” His tone was flat in humorless.

The Cafeteria of Somerset High School was buzzing with talk, of the latest game, the upcoming dance, and the murder at the town library. Whispered comments were made, passed from table to table, about Darlene and that new guy Grunge.

Grunge and Darlene sat at an isolated table in the back of the cafeteria. Their lunches finished, they spoke in lowered voices, I can’t believe it, Miss Clark accused of murder." He shook his

head, "She was gone just a few minutes. You don't run down stairs, kill someone, and then come running back up. And how would she have known Chambers was down there. It makes no

sense."

"Miss Clark just couldn't do something like that. I know she and Miss Chambers didn't work well together...but murder? No."

she folded her lunch sack and placed it in her backpack, "And I remember seeing her put that wire thing in the top drawer of her desk. Did you see her go back there? I didn't"

"Who did, who took it from the desk?" He chewed on his knuckle, staring at the far wall. Then smirked, "Did one of us kids have an overdue fine, and took it out on the old lady. Maybe I

should suggest that to Officer Dan." Darlene laughed at Grunge’s idea.

"Makes about as much sense as accusing Miss Clark." Darlene responded.

"Wow Darlene, you were in the paper this morning." Paula Wagner and several friends approached the table. They ignored Grunge. Paula leaned close, in a conspiratorial voice she asked,

"Did you see the body?" Paula, bleached hair, heavy makeup, and high heels was not a close friend of Darlene's. "Tell us all about it." It sounded as if it was a command.

"I didn't see the body and the police have asked us not to talk about it." Darlene smiled, but didn't mean to.

"That's not fair." Paula stomped her foot and wandered off with her friends.

Grunge slammed his locker closed and leaned back, Tops to one side Flyman at the other. The hallway was a crush of students socializing, calling out taunts and waiting for the last minute to move on to the next class. Flyman brushed at his long stringy hair.

"Man, this ain't cool. That old broad dying like that, ruined the whole night. We was just startin' to have fun. And then whoever done it got my chocker thing. I didn't know it could kill someone. Dude, no wonder Miss Clark got so pissed." Flyman looked around not wanting anyone to hear that he was the one that provided the weapon. “Think on it, my prints are all over that thing, an’ hers. Not cool dude.” The boarder had a long history of petty larceny with the town police.

"Yeah, well that choker thing, it's called a garrote, got Miss Clark into trouble with the cops. And, I take back all the good stuff I said about Officer Dan. He is not being so cool with Miss Clark." Grunge hefted his backpack over his shoulder. "Have to be stupid to think she could do something like this."

"I heard that the cop and the librarian had something going." Flyman shook his head, "But, he ain't showin' her no mercy." Grunge thought about Darlene, he would never let her down. He would always believe in her.

The bell rang for the next class, they exchanged shrugs, Grunge fought his way down the hall. Flyman and tops, drug there boards and sauntered to a class they were sure to sleep through.

“Coffee?” Mary smart asked Janeane, then giving her an appraising scan “What happened to you?

Janeane responded with a sour look. “I’ve given up the brew. Kane gave me the best he had to offer. What an offense to the noble bean. And my appearance, I wanted to play up the sleepless nights and pounding headache. Both are true, but I made cosmetic adjustments for emphasis.”

Mary’s eyes darted about the room, and in a conspiratorial whisper, “What did you find?”

Janeane leaned close to her friend, whispering, “First thing when they let me in back I dumped all their brewed coffee, if you want to call it that, down the sink. Then In Kane’s office I asked for a cup. He was happy to share. Then when He as gone I went through the files on this desk, I knew it would take some time to cook up fresh sludge. Everything was there. I almost lost it, again, flipping to the photos…without warning there they were…more sleepless nights.” Mary put her hand on her friend’s.

“So what did you learn?”

“Nothing that I didn’t know already. Well I didn’t know the time of death. As Kane enjoys pointing out, she died and then I was there. Or I killed her and I was there all along, his take.”? Janeane sat up and Mary followed. “I will have a coffee, and cake, I need something to re-balance my taste buds and blood sugar.”

Janeane toyed with the napkin on the bistro table. What did I learn? What do they not know, what did they miss?

Mary brought two coffees and two pieces of the carrot cake.  Between bites Janeane began thinking out load with Mary. “Other than time of death there wasn’?t much that I could extract. There are those elements tat they don’t seem to be considering. The misplaced book. That may be a stretch but to me it didn’t look right. It was at Chambers’ side, opposite the stack kicked off the shelf.”? Janeane paused thinking, envisioning the director’s legs dislodging the valuable items to the floor. She shook her head, then took another bite. “Hmm, the window was open and the kick stool. I saw no notes on that. Maybe I missed that. Kane, when he opened the window he reached unlocked and pushed up. His feet were on the floor. Me, I had to use the stool.”? Her head nodded as she reconstructed the scene in her head.

Mary was getting into the story, “So? What are you thinking?”

Janeane contemplated with a lick of the frosting from her fork. “That’s a good frosting, would you share the recipe?”

“Never, my business depends upon it. Not on your life!” She laughed, but there was steel in her words.

“Yeah…so I’m thinking the person, man or woman, can’t be sexist about this, is vertically challenged. Short, like me.”

“And the other thing about the stool; when I shoved myself out the window I pushed the stool away from the wall…for every action there is an opposite and equal reaction, Newton’?s third law of motion.”

“So?”

“The stool was used by a short person to leave through the window. And I don’t think they came in through the window, no dirt or mud on the floor. They did find shoe prints outside. The person had the good sense to smear them as he stepped onto the grass and made his escape.”?

“What does this tell us?”

“We are in search of a short person, what, maybe sixty per cent of the township could fit the category?

“Nothing seems to have been stolen from the room, so I don’t see a book connection. I’m stumped; what do you think?”

“The environmental issues have been hot. I can’t imagine anyone killing for political, environmental issues.” Mary gave that some more thought then chuckled, “?Oh, I forgot the Unabomber. I guess we all have our hot button issues.”

Janeane gave the proprietor a sideways smile, finished her cake and the last of the coffee, “Would that include a frosting recipe?”?

Mary as a suspect

Janeane has been appointed the library director, but Dan has concerns about Mary Smart. Dan looked at Mary across the desk. He had known Tom and Mary for many years, not at a social level, but contacts. Tom had attend quite a few o his exercise classes. They had found themselves on the same foursome for several charity golf tournaments. Keeping a balance of exercise  and caloric intake was important to Dan. He couldn’t resist a slice of carrot cake at Mary’s coffee house. The would exchange a word or two before he devoured her cake. Several times she sat down and talked about city politics, what was going on in the department, chit chat.They always seemed to be good people, he enjoyed their enlightened conversation and friendly ways. But something was nagging in his brain.

Janeane was, well important to Dan. He was pleased that she would be anchored to Somerset. Being the director meant she would not be packing her bags any time soon. That pleased him, but the way it happened, so quick, almost orchestrated. Miss Chambers, Miss Bennett. He chewed on the inside of his cheek. Bennett was probably easy, a little bit of preasure and she folded, quit and left town. Chambers…he couldn’t imagine…no Mary wouldn’t do that! Or would she? He had to think like a cop, everyone is a suspect…you have no friends. He had gone so far as to run checks looking for any contact between the two prior to the hiring. Phone records and internet records found nothing.

He smiled at Mary, “So, you have been on the library board, how many years now?” The smile always set the suspect at ease, mad ‘?em feel they were in the company of friends. Well not so much with the hardened types, Mary here probably fell for the friendly conversation setup.

“Eight years.” She returned the smile, she had her hands folded in her lap. That concerned the interrogator, that was a good way to cover shaking hands.

“Okay, “ he looked at his notes, “and Gilcrest has been on the board right along with you. Is that correct?” Dan wasn’t happy with the way that sounded. It had a Perry Mason, badgering the witness tone. Another smile, not so natural this time, he felt sweat at his under arMiss

“Oh, Mr. Gilcrest has been on the board for many years, long before we arrived, I think I heard over twenty-four years.”

His voice almost cracked as he asked, “Miss Chambers, the two of you never…worked well together?”

“Tom and I came up from Boston after graduating from college, we wanted to raise a family in a small town, a place where there was a sense of community. We have always attempted to accept local ways and values. But Miss Chambers archaic management, paternalism and proprietary attitude was more than I and many people here were willing to accept. I went on the board with the intention of influencing change. In the beginning I was hoping that she could be coaxed. She was intransigent, she knew best, she was the librarian, it was her library, she would run it as she saw fit.”

She looked down at her hands that had been pulling at a Kleenex, it was a nest of paper fibers. “No, the director and I did not share common values, or goals.”?

It was quiet in the Somerset High School Library, and why wouldn’t it be? The lunch hour was a time to eat and socialize in the cafeteria or secluded nooks and crannies on the campus. Darlene eased into a lounge chair and pulled her calculus textbook from her pack, she looked at her watch, forty-five minutes. Most of her classes were a pleasure and passed with ease. Mathematics were a struggle, she got her As and Bs but they didn’t come easy. She began reading, taking notes, frowning and fretting.

“There you are.” It was Roni Safford, Home Coming Queen and star cheer leader. She and Darlene had been friends since first grade, they met and talked, however their interest had gone their separate directions. Roni was breathless, “Did you read it?” Darlene fained a smile. Not now, this is not going well. Why me! She wanted to scream.

“Roni, hi. Read what?” Numbers and formulas were running through Darlene’s head.

“The latest Reckless Abandon novel.” The cheer leader enthused.

Darlene wanted to cry. Not now! Not ever do I want to discuss a Bodice wrenching romance. And calling it a novel was being overly generous. She was caught, no exit available, and she was going to be nice. Well, as best she could. Darlene hefted the calculus text and glanced down at the books spilling from her backpack. “I just haven’t had time for fun reads.” She pleaded. Not that Roni would understand. Cheer-leading was going to be her passport to college if she ever applied.

“No time. Now that isn’t a proper excuse. This is the romance to end all romances. Lady Kate is kidnapped by Captain Blade, returned to England but she returns to the Caribbean to seek out her true love. The sex scenes are the best I have ever read.” She whispered to Darlene.

Cats and dogs came to her thoughts. Cats and dogs, why cats and dogs? Mark Twain, she remembered an essay. “Your story is about a woman being treated roughly by a man. It reminds me of an essay by Mark Twain, he talked about the differences between the two. A dog will accept abuse from his owner, always loyal, always returning no matter how mean the treatment. A cat will never accept abuse. They will run off, or if confined will never show affection. They will take on a haughty air.”

“I don’t get it, what do cats and dogs have to do with my romance?” Roni just didn’t understand.

“Your book encourages abusive relationships. Books, and films should empower women to be strong, don;t accept harsh treatment.”

Roni’s jaw dropped, she shook her head. “Darlene you are from another world.” She turned and left Darlene to her calculus problems. Darlene felt small, the rejection of her thoughts, those of Twain made sense to her. She knew that outside the library, the other kids, she was a freak in a sense, a freak from another world.

Chapter 18

HAVE A SCENE, MRS CARTER BRINGS CINNAMON ROLLS AND THE PAPER WITH ETHAN TAYLORS ARTICLE ACCUSING HER OF MURDER. CARTER COMMISERATES, ANHD INFORMS AS TO ALL THE RUMORS, FRIENDS WARNING HER A BOUT HER MURDEROUS TENNANT.—DID ID DO THIS ALREADY?

HAVE TO RESELVE ISSUE OF JANEANS EMPLOYMENT.

COULD HAVE SCENE WHERE BENNETT IS STIRING UP STAFF, JANEAN NOTE INVITED TO MEETING

Janean sat at her kitchen table, attired in bathrobe and bunny slippers. Her groggy head was held aloft with supporting hands, drool ran down from the edge of her mouth. There was a tapping at the door. Janean knew it was still dark outside. That could only mean that her landlord had come to uplift her spirits. That lady is too fragile to lift the misery I’m carrying.

She pushed herself to her feet, placing one foot in front of the other she was able to get to the door, opening it to Mrs. Carter. The rush of cold air came near to throwing her to the floor. Then she smelled the contents of her friends basket, cinnamon rolls. Cinnamon anything was Janean’s vice. Her to die for food or beverage.

“I think you need something to raise your spirits. You do seem to enjoy my rolls.” She pulled back the covering towel, letting the aroma infuse the room. “I just took them from the oven.”

Janean couldn’t help but smile. “Come in I will fix some coffee.”

“No.” Mrs. Carter had surveyed Janean’s drawn features, mussed hair and bedraggled clothing. “No, dear. You sit, I will make the coffee. You can nibble on a roll.”

“I’m in no shape to argue.” She hated to admit to her fatigue.

MRS. CARTER  MAKES COFFEE, JANEAN FINDS THE NEWSPAPER BELOW THE BASKET BEGINS READING ETHAN TAYLOR ARTICLE ACUSING HER OF MURDER, OR THERE ABOUTS.

Somerset Press article—mentions the long history of the Chambers family and Miss Chambers contributions to the town and library. Effusive words. Mention of the jewels.

“What brings Somerset's finest to the lowly library, so early in the morning.” Janean was at her desk doing an Internet search on her smart phone. She strained her aching neck to look up at the towering police detective, Sgt. Dan Kane.

JANEAN DRESSED IN BLACK FOR THE FUNERAL LATER IN THE DAY

Kane looked around the room, making sure no one was listening, he disliked people listening in on his conversations. It had something to do with television, the police procedurals that he enjoyed the most, the rough and tough cop keeping everything close to the chest. “Lawyer Jessop tells me someone got into the chambers house. Other day he went over there to pick up some things, he found...stuff. You know things were out of order. Miss Chambers’ office in the house was tossed about, someone seemed to be searching, searching a lot, messing things up.” He rocked back and forth on his heels. “Know anything about it?”

"Oh! So now I'm being accused of housebreaking. Detective Kane, you overestimate my talents. I'm just your basic little old librarian, I read books, put them on the shelves, and help answer questions; I don't deal drugs, break into houses, or murder my boss.” She gave Kane a smug look, and returned to her search screen. “So do you have your squad cars patrolling the cemetery.” She was having difficulty containing a smirk.

Sgt. Kane stopped his rocking, brow crinkling. “And why would I have a patrol car cruising the cemetery? We have better things to do than looking after the stiffs at night.”

“Hmm. Only trying to be helpful.” Janean scrolled down the smart phone screen, “Says here that Miss Chambers was buried with all her jewelry, well some of her favored stones. Ethan Taylor says here she will be buried with tens of thousands of dollars in jewels.” She leaned back to get a better look at the officer. “With the unemployment rate here in town, there would be many a poor soul that would like to get hold of that treasure trove.” Her smile broadened. She loved to torment this guy.

“Let me see that.” Kane reached for the phone, Janean hesitated being mindful of the detectives track record with electronic devices. His large paws fumbled in their attempt to scroll down the screen.

“Argh! Keys are too small, why don't they make larger buttons on these things?” His face scrunched to a sour glare directed at the offending phone. Janean pointed to the newspaper rack.

“We have the paper over there on the rack. Think you can handle it?” She was having just too much fun this morning.

Sgt. Kane's face turned red, and the veins in his neck pulsed as he read the article. “That Taylor Kid has never shown any common sense. Any fool would know that this stuff is going to have every small-time hood in Somerset heading over there with his shovel, and a get-rich-quick mantra running through their heads. We don't have the manpower to cover this, we'd have to be over there 24/7 for months, maybe years. Damn fool!” He looked like he was going to tear the paper to shreds.

Janean, in her own fashion felt sorry for the plight of the overworked detective, and his coworkers. Everyone wanted security, but no one wanted to pay for it. So the Somerset PD was overworked, and stretched to the limits. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, thought you should know.” All she could do was to give Kane a sympathetic shrug.

“Yeah, just what we need the Invasion Of The Body Snatchers.” He fished in his overcoat pocket for an antacid, Janean thought she could hear the grumbling of his innards from her side of the desk.

The detective turned to leave, over his shoulder he threw out, “thanks Miss Clark, I'll let the Chief know. Sure he'll be more than happy.” Kane trudged across the floor and out the front door.

***

Rain pounded down on the canopy above the open grave. The minister intoned the burial prayers, the gray haired mourners, library staff and a few friends were bowed with solemnity. Janean stood aside, seeking refuge beneath a nearby maple tree. Her presence at the church was received with frigid glares. Should she had stayed away it would be taken as a sign of guilt. Being present was no doubt seen as arrogance, disrespect for the victim of her heinous crime.

Detective Kane trod through the soggy grass to stand next to the librarian. “Always seems to rain for our funerals up here. Wouldn’t be a funeral without rain.” She looked up at the cop unsure whether to believe him or not.

Janean was hit by an uncontrollable shiver accompanied by chattering of her teeth. Kane moved in closer, putting his arm behind Janean. “Should the investigating officer be consorting with the prime suspect.” She nodded at the assembled mourners, “They are going to question your objectivity.”

Kane snickered, “They’re so blind, they don’t even know we are here.”

“Not so. They have been shooting daggers at me off and on.” She responded. Kane gave a shrug.

“Good for them. The old biddies need something to get their blood pressure up.”

“Hunh. I don’t need them riled at me. Life in the library is bad enough, I get the silent treatment and the drop dead stares when I walk into the workroom.” Janean’s shoulders slumped. “I mentioned to Bennett that I am innocent until proven otherwise. Bennett just scowled, waggled her head and said, “I know you did it,” so much for due process.” The librarian deflated all the more.  Kane’s hand went down to her waist, pulling her closer, or maybe just getting a feel.

The minister closed his good book, looked to his flock and began issuing personal condolences. Janean stepped away from Kane. “I’ve done enough damage for one day.” She turned and skulked away into the relentless rain.

***

Ethan Taylor, The thought of the man's name raised Kane's blood pressure, the acid churned in his stomach. The detective grabbed the door handle to the Somerset Press offices. Oscar Goodwin, editor of the Press, peered over his half glasses.

Locals referred to Goodwin as the hamster. A rodent like mouth, and a nervous twitch at the nose, the name seemed appropriate. "Kane." The editor nodded, eyes dropping down to a mock-up of the next edition of the Press. Arms crossed the cop towered over the newsman. Goodwin knew the reason for the visit. Subscriptions were on a downward trend, any stories that stirred public interest could not be ignored. And Ethan Taylor had an uncanny ability to find the salacious tale.

The editor's red colored pencil ran across line after line. He had no intention of breaking the silence, Kane knew the man was a coward. He cleared his voice, “Your story about Eloise Chambers...”

Goodwin interrupted, his eyes came up to meet Kane’s. He smirked, “Shouldn't you be out finding the murderer of Miss Chambers?”

“I was. I have been. But now I will have to focus on the cemetery and the likely arrival of grave robbers. We've seen interest, Internet kooks as far up as Bangor. You and Taylor have caused the department no end of problems. Proud of yourself.” 

“Well...yes. The story increased sales twenty-five percent.” The nose twitched.

Kane knew he was wasting his time. The man had no conscience

***

Informal gathering at Higher Grounds

***

BREAKIN AT MANSION

The glass crashed to the floor, he looked to the darkened yard, the nearest house was hundreds of yards away, no one would hear. He used his bar to break away the remaining shards of glass. He had no desire to cut himself or leave evidence of his visitation. He reached in, he knew the location of each lock, flipped each and pushed the door open. Just that easy he thought. He also thought of her passing and the complications that made. One never knows the time or place, but surely she could have better prepared. And what had she left behind to implicate him. He turned on the flashlight, it cast a yellow beam. He passed the butlers pantry, entered the kitchen and found his way to the backstairs. The old house creaked like an old maid in pain, he chuckled. Ascending the stairs he stopped at the second floor landing, looking down on the yard, he was alone. The light flashed across the vestibule, finding the office and her trove of documents.

LEDGER? NO COMPUTER, SHE WOULDN’T HAVE SUCH A NEW CONTRAPTION

He stood in the office doorway, "Something’s not right," He spoke to himself. The flashlight shook in his hand, "This can't be." The light crossed and recrossed the desk, drawers left open, paper strewn across the top. This wasn't Eloise's doing. Someone has been here. He sat in the office chair, fingering at what was left behind. Nothing. That was good, the police, her lawyer would never know, but someone. Someone wanted evidence. Who? And for what purpose? A hurricane of thoughts stormed through his head. This is no good, he flashed the light around the room again, nothing. "I must go home, give this thoughtful consideration. Her circle of friends was limited, I will decipher who has done this, I will deal with them." He stood, following the yellow beam out and down the stairs. Extinguishing the light he stepped onto the back porch, listening for unusual sounds, then stepped down and off into the night.

***

DOLE TAKES HIS SHOT—HE HIDES LOOT IN ATIC, IN HPOES IT NWILL NOT BE FOUND, AT LEAST NOT RIGHT AWAY

Ian Dole slipped out of his truck, he had removed the interior light, he crouched as he moved away from the vehicle and into the bushes that surrounded the Chambers estate. He brushed aside the branches and peered across the wide expanse of lawn. Dole took a black knit cap from his dark, navy blue jacket. He pulled the cap low, just above his eyes.

He rolled back on his haunches, eyes and ears assessing any unwanted activity or sounds. Nothing. With a scissor motion he gained his feet and darted across the open space and under the willow canopy at the side of the house.

He stood, hands against the clapboard siding. He felt for vibrations. He knew he would only feel stomping feet or dropping furniture. There was no vibrations. He didn't expect any. He edged down to the porch rail pulling himself up and over.

DOLE IS SEARCHING CHAMBERS HOUSE FOR HISTORRICAL DOCUMENTS THAT MIGHT PAINT A NEGATIVE PICTURE OF THE FAMILY. HE IS CONCERNED THAT HER WILL, WILL CALL FOR THEIR DISTRUCTION. HE KNOWS THAT WHAT HE IS DOIONG IS ILLEGAL, BUT FROM A HISTORICL PERSPECTIVE HE DOESN'T WANT TO SEE THEM LOST.

CHAPTER 19

NEED TO HAVE A TRANSITIONAL SCENE INDICATING JANEAN IS GOING TO THE FARM TO SEARCH FOR EVIDENCE. WHAT IS DOLE’S CONNECTION WITH POPPER AND ECO-TERRORISM—DID HE HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH CHAMBERS DEATH

DOE’S FARM, INSERT SCENE WHERE HE FIRES OFF GUN. NO SEX, SHE SLEEPS ON HIS COUCH—DEER ALTERCATION

Janean was unsure if this was such a good idea, stopping by Dole’s farm unannounced. She found the turnoff that would take her there, a sign over the road announced Ozymandias.  The sign didn’t seem to match the north woods or Doles disdain for the great men of history. She paused, to give the sign further consideration, not the name, but the construction; it was a broad wood panel, the letters being composed of metal rosettes pounded into the wood. They appeared to be identical to the one in her possession; several of the metal ornaments were missing. 

She considered the implications, then shoved off down the hill.  She took her feet off the pedals allowing the bike to coast down the dirt drive, through the trees she could see a clearing and at the far end the homestead. The road opened out at the edge of a meadow, she identified orange hawkweed and the ever present lupine. Her wildflower study was progressing.  And then there was the rustic cabin, nuzzled up amongst the trees. She got off her bike, walked onto the porch and knocked on the heavy wooden door.

There was no response. But it’s early, farmers have to work while the sun shines. Or, so she had read. Stepping out to the end of the porch she viewed the fields studded with wildflowers, as well as plantings of vegetables, some of which she could recognize. In the distance she could hear what sounded like sawing.

As she drew close to the sound she realized she was approaching an orchard, but, she was unsure of the variety of the trees. “Ian Dole. It is I, Janean Clark.” She thought it best to announce herself.

She found the tree he was pruning. The librarian took in Dole, sun glistened off his sweaty back, muscles rippling with each move. Saw in hand he worked his way up the tree cutting out dead branches. He hummed to himself a tuneless song, no one was around to criticize his lack of musical talent. Or so he thought. "Ian Dole, hard at work I see." Dole looked down to see Janean Clark.

“What brings the local librarian out to the wilds of the countryside? Overdue books?” Dole asked. Whad’ya know, he has a sense of humor.

Janean shaded her eyes with her hand, looking up at Dole. “You said that I should come out…you would show me how man can work with nature, rather than against. Isn’t that what you suggested?”

He laughed. “Oh, so you were listening to my rant. I’m afraid that at times I put people to sleep.”

“No I was listening.” She said, her fingers were crossed behind her back, a habit from Grandma Clark. She had only partially listened to the farmers diatribe against agro-industrial culture.

Janean at Dole's farm.

Janean kicked at the piles of branches. “What do you do with these.” She asked.

He dropped another limb, Janean moved aside. “Nothing goes to waste here. I'll use some pieces around here. The rest I take to craft gatherings. They are used for decorative arts, baskets, even tools. Everything has a use.”

Dole came down the ladder. Janean had difficulty not admiring the muscles undulating along his back. He turned to her. “Want to help bundling and tying these up. Shouldn’t take long, then I'll show you around.”

Use some of the conversation from other scene here.

“Ian, something wrong?” Janean had noticed his head coming up quickly, and the rapid turn to the west. His hand came up to quiet her. His pose reminded her of hunting dogs, noses pointing, ears attentive. He almost seemed to sniff the air.

“Shh!” He hissed.

Shh! How dare you. I'm the librarian. I’ll be doing the shushing.

“Stay here. I'll be back.” He commanded.

You better be back. This isn’t my turf. He strode off, his long legs taking him through the orchard and out into the fields. “Might as well make myself useful.” Janean bent down to continue the stacking and bundling. “Ouch! Damn!” She swore, her right hand going to her mouth she sucked on her bleeding index finger. Klutz. And where is farmer Dole?

The librarian was skittish around blood, especially when it was hers. She spit out the blood in her mouth and took a timid look at the injured appendage. “Gag.” It wasn’t difficult to find the offending object. Sticking out from under her nail was a chunk of wood. Her shaking left hand grasped the sliver, eyes squinted closed, he gave it a yank.

“Yeow!” She screeched. She clasped the finger giving it a firm squeeze. She remember this was her first aid routine as a child. Not sure as to the effectiveness. Out here in the woods alone she had no other option.

Bang! Janean shrugged, making herself small. The quiet was shattered by what she assumed was gunfire. “Ian!” She called out. “Where are you?” She looked past the trees into the grassy field, she could still see the path left by Dole. “Ian.” She felt abandoned. This was foolish. Coming out here.

She took a step toward the homestead. “Shh! Stay here!” The remembered words. Bang! Came the second report. Now she was certain someone was shooting at man or beast. She took off at a run, tears filled her eyes. Then she flew into the air, landing with a thud in the grass. Behind her she saw a branch hidden in the tall vegetation. She gave her ankle a flexing, no permanent damage. Bang! Again.

She rolled onto her stomach. Is this a war zone? She lifted her gaze just above the grass blades, no Ian. She breathed in deep. Calm! Calm! She convinced herself to make another run for her bike, escaping this mayhem.

The grass lashed at her legs, arms pumped at the air as she approached Dole’s truck, the farmer stood at the open passenger side door. He gave her a warm smile as he passed an object to the glove compartment. Was that a gun. Sure looked like a gun.

Panting, Janean asked, “Did you hear gun shots?” How could he not.

Dole made his turn to the west again, and then with a reassuring smile, “We get poachers out in the woods…hunt rabbits and other small game.”

He closed the truck door and any further discussion of gun play.

“He took a piece of paper, crumpled it and tossed it on the table. ‘There it is. That is how my building will look.’ Isn’t that a bit arrogant. It shows the ultimate disregard for nature.    

“This is beautiful,” She looked around, in awe of the setting. “I don’t want to speak; I just want to listen to the quiet.”? She kicked down the bike stand, and walked along the edge of the drive, she stooped to look at some of the small flowers hidden in the tall grass. “So small, so delicate,” her fingers reaching in to better view the varied colors and shapes.”?

Ian crouched next to her, and whispered, “May I speak now?” He smiled, and she returned his.

“Yes, You may speak…but this is just so breathtaking, the openness, the colors, and the mountains off in the distance. To own this, to be a part of it is so special.”?

Ian’s brow furrowed, “I don’t really own the farm, yes I have a deed with my name on it.” He stood, along with Janean, “?Some day someone else will come along, hopefully they will feel the same way about the land and the woods as I do. The farm should honor our ancestors, nurture those today who will eat our produce, and it should be fostered to sustain future generations.”?

Janean’s shoulders slumped, Ian had the habit of sucking air out of a rising balloon, or raining on parades, ever the philosopher. “Would you like to see our gardens,” He motioned with one hand. At a turn in the road, beyond an apple orchard stood acre after acre of vegetables. Janean was able to recognize some of the basics: carrots, turnips, and spinach. Everything was so green, so tall, and so delicious to look upon. “?We practice permaculture, no chemicals. The soil was thin here; we built it up with organic amendments, manures, and plant matter. Now we have soil that will produce quality produce as long it is cared for and loved.”

The word loved caught her attention, loving the land, is he a people lover, one who could have a relationship, Janean wondered. “I hear you saying we.” She looked around, “Who else is involved with the farm.”

“I have a network of friends; you know that I write articles, for conservation and permaculture magazines? Friends will come up when I plant or harvest. We sell at farmers markets as well as bartering.”? He chewed on the end of a weed. “It’s not about me; it’s about nurturing the land and having a community that lives in a sustainable way. It is all about we.”

Janean nodded, damn he is a philosopher, one that likes to get his hands dirty in the soil, She had difficulty responding. “I know that you are from Boston, did you have farming experience before you came up?”

“No, I heard a lecture at my college that changed my life. My parents, many people I know strive to make change through politics; but nothing seems to change. This professor suggested that change needs to come from the bottom up. People should build communities that are autonomous, self sufficient. Everyone sees the big corporation coming to town as the answer, that only last a generation or two. Sustainable communities can go on forever, people nurturing one another’s needs. Buying local, building local, drawing upon local resources.”

God there he goes again, I need to keep my mouth shut.

Ian stooped down, grabbed a handful of the dark earth, feeling it in his palm, “local resources for the local population.” Janean noticed a tire track near his foot, that same tire, not with the rosette, but the same model. Mr. Flynn at the garage said it was a common tire for older cars, especially imports, like that VW van.

“You must have to do a lot of weeding, and spraying for bugs.”

Ian popped up like he was sprung from a jack-in-the-box, a frown on his face, “We have no sprays here, no chemicals.” Now she had done it, she had fallen down a deep dark well, and he would not help her out. If she hadn’t been thinking about that tire she wouldn’t have asked such a stupid question. Damn. 

She melted back a step or two, his laser like gaze was more than she could handle. This was a wasted trip! There was the missing piece from the Shangra-La sign, and maybe that tire track. If only.

Ian realized that he had scared the hell out of the girl from the big city, she didn’t know any better. “I’m sorry.”? He offered an apology. “And you made that long ride from town, you must be tired.” He looked up at the sun, “We can sit on the porch, I have juice in the frig.” He smiled.

Janean gave him a tentative nod, and a sideways smile. “Okay.” Well I get a second chance here. Don’t blow it Janean!

Sitting on the steps in the shade Janean thought about who comes and goes on the farm and what sort of vehicles might be involved.

“Here you go,” Ian handed Janean a glass filled with a greenish liquid. She thought about asking what it was, her statistics with questions was abysmal. She smiled and drank. Then she gave an honest smile.

“Taste good.” But she was not going to ask, if he offered that would be fine, but no questions. She clicked the toes of her shoes together.

“It’s a natural fruit powder, from the health food store.”

Janean nodded, deep in thought, “Do you use a tractor to plow your fields?”

“Oh, no, Mac Dill down the road has a team of mules. I do work for him and he lets me use his team. That kind of makes me a part-time mule.” He made a slight chuckle; the closest Janean had ever seen him get to a laugh. Lighten up Ian.

“Have you had anyone helping you in the fields lately?” Janean held her breath, she wasn’t sure if she was pressing too hard, asking intrusive questions. Please, please!

“Popper and his family have been here off and on.” There was another almost laugh, as he thought about Poppers work ethic. “Out beyond the gardens there are several camp sites, the Popejoy’?s, Popper, his wife Natasha and the kids have been staying. I haven’t seen them for a few days. Like I said they come and go. He will help some.”

Janean let that rumble around in her head. That’s it, no more questions; thank him for the farm tour, and the drink and you are on your way. She thought about what she had gathered from this outing: The source of the rosette, another tire track, and a name, the Popejoy family, not confirmed but possible.

Janean sat on the front porch in a wicker rocking chair, from inside the cabin she could smell the aroma of fresh baked bread, she eased back, closed her eyes and enjoyed the country smells and chirping of birds from the woods. She could understand Ian’s wanting to be away from town. As small as Somerset was, it had its noises, and lacked the direct contact with nature.

Dole brought out plates and tableware, and then a cast iron pot and the warm bread. The bread coaxed Janean back to reality. “I can’t imagine a more perfect setting for a meal.”

Dole pulled out a chair, she sat and inhaled the aromas from the pot. “What have you cooked in the dutch oven.”

“Very good, not many people know the traditional name. Most call it that steel pot! I have whipped together a simple vegetable soup, hope you will enjoy it.”? He ladled soup into Janean’s bowl and then his own.

She blew on her spoon of soup and then tasted, “Good, very good, no meat?” She took another spoon, “The flavor is spectacular.”?

“No meat, I’m a vegetarian. The flavor comes from herbs and spices. Most people think of vegetarian cooking as bland. It can be kicked up with judicious use of condiments.”? He removed the cloth from around his bread, “May I tear off a piece for you,” He asked.

“Yes please. I must apologize I feel so hedonistic, I just want to inhale what you have here.”

Dole tore off a chunk of bread for his guest and himself. She dipped the bread into the soup, eyed Ian and apologized for her lack of manners, “?I can’t restrain myself, they are both so tasty.”

He leaned back and laughed, “Food needs to be enjoyed, people getting together sharing, nurturing. Social conventions destroy the real meaning of food, a meal. I’?m not a religious person, but in most religions, food and meals are a spiritual event, applying formality only distract from the human connections of food and people.”

She stared at her host, “You have an uncanny way of complicating the simple. I do agree with you, relaxing with friends is the most enjoyable part of a meal.”? And hearing laughter, and seeing smiles, rare experiences with this guy.

“May I take that as a halfway compliment?”

“Yes, you may.”

“What brought you to the backwoods of Maine Ian?” Janean asked.

“I wanted to make a difference, a visible difference in my life and maybe those around me. That is not something a person can do in Boston or New York. Only those with delusions of grandeur attempt such feats. To be honest, I guess it is mostly about me, if someone wants to come along for the ride that would be good as well.”? He responded.

Janean took a bite of her bread, her eyes wandered to the woods, the declining sun had turned the woods dark. She remembered her studies of local plant and animal life. “Ian, do you see bear and wolves out here?”

“No…” he said. That was a relief she thought, if she road back to town tonight she would have no concerns. After a pause he completed his thought, “I’ll hear the wolves howling, most nights, and on occasion I will find where a bear has rubbed up against a tree, or slashed at a trunk. He held his fingers wide to give a sense of the paw size. “Bigger than that though.”

That was not the reassurance that she was wanting.     “Do you own a gun…for protection?”

“No, I wouldn’t want to harm the critters out there. Like I said, I’m just passing through here. It is there land, more than mine. They help to keep a balance with rodent populations. We try to live in peace here, Shangra La.” He rationed out another rare smile, self deprecating this time.

Now she as unsure about riding the bike back to town.

“Why do you bother, with the meetings, talking to people?”

“When I see something that is wrong, needs to be corrected, I wouldn’t feel right not speaking up. Intellectual honesty.” He chewed on his last crust of bread. He chuckled, “?Maybe vanity as well. And why did you come to Somerset?”

“The job, I had been on my previous job for over ten years, it was time for change. I had achieved everything possible there, it was time for new challenges, new mountains to climb. I just didn’t realize how tall this mountain was.”

Ian looked out to the meadow fading into darkness. “Getting dark, we could go inside I’ll build a fire and brew some coffee.”?

“That would be nice.”

Ian crumpled several pieces of newspaper, placing them in the center of the fireplace, he thin strips of wood were layered on the paper and two large branches were placed on top. He struck a match to the paper then stepped back.  Flames rose up from the paper, igniting the thin wood and then lapped at the thicker limbs. A spicy aroma filled the room; Ian sat next to Janeanne on the couch. She moved close and kissed him on his cheek, “Thank you for dinner, it was so special. It is as you say almost spiritual with the right person.”

Ian put his hand on hers, he turned to her, moving close he kissed her lips, she responded, opening her mouth. He cupped her face in his hands, probing deep with his tongue. Her back arched as he moved a hand to her breast. “?I’m not sure that a bike ride back to town would be safe,” He pulled back to look into her eyes, “With the wild critters in the woods, maybe you should spend the night.”

“Did you plan on this, seducing me?”

“I wish that I had. I could take on a manly posture, claiming my intended conquest. But that would be intellectually dishonest.”

“Ian, there you go again, complicating the simple.” She nibbled on his ear, and whispered, “Seduce, me and be quick about it,” As they rolled back on the couch.

***

Janean didn’t sleerp with Dole—she fell asleep on the couch he covered her

Janean awoke to the sound of rattling pans, tinny sounds from the kitchen. She was curled up to Ian who was unaware of the intruding rattle. She slid to the side of the bed, dressed and did a stealth walk to the door. Cracking the door open she could see the intruder, or the mass of his familiar frizzed hair. Stepping into the dining room, she cleared her throat, Popper Popejoy, she assumed the name, jumped with a startle. He gave the house guest a hazy stare, his fogged brain attempting to decipher where he had seen her before. “Man, gimme a heart attack.” His right hand massaged his chest.

“I’m sorry…I’m Janean…um…friend of Ian.” She explained, and held out her hand. Frying pan in his left, quizzical look on his ace, he shook with his right.

“Popper, people call me Popper. Don’t I know you?” His brain was working overtime.

Yes, now it all comes together. She attempted to control the sense of achievement; the smug inside was welling over. “My bike had broken down, you and your wife gave me a ride in your van back to town.”? She thought about the van, tire track, rosette, joint stub, but was it meaningful. Did this connect them to the crime. She was beginning to see that a real investigation would be complicated. Many threads coming together, trying to make sense of them…?hmm!

He started thinking, and again the head bob began. “Cool man, think I might remember that.” He turned, shuffling to the back door with the fry pan and a box of cereal under his arm. He mumbled “?cool” as he went out the back door and down the steps. Janean’s mind flipped to Ian, he wouldn’t have anything to do with this? She heard the man of the house yawn from the bedroom.

She turned to see him in the doorway, t-shirt, shorts and disheveled hair. “I thought you ran out on me.”

“No, you had company, Popper…Mr. Popejoy borrowed a frying pan, box of cereal.”

He stepped over to her, hand at her waist he began directing her back to the bedroom. “Since you didn’t run off, why don’t you come back to bed, we can…you know.”

***

She hummed to herself as she wound along the forest road. Ian had offered a ride, she was insistent that she was an accomplished rider; she would have no problems, finding her way or avoiding catastrophes. On the paved main road she sensed a car behind her, she kept to the shoulder to avoid a collision, giving  the driver room to pass. Back to her humming she forgot about the car and focused on Ian. The warmth he generated in her. And what an accomplished person, building his cabin, surviving in the woods, baking and cooking, what a guy. He was the true Renaissance man.

 Back to the real world she thought about that car, it never passed. Quick glances over her shoulder would reveal a flash of color behind or she would hear a distant crunch of gravel.

There was a rise above, at the top she would stop and look back to see who was following her. At the high point she did just that, she looked back upon vacant pavement, but around a bend there were wisps of vapor, such as that made by an idling vehicle.

There was a good grade down this side of the hill, she would put distance between herself and whoever it was that was following. She pushed off, and began pumping the pedals, keeping her head low; she whipped around the first curve. She could feel the tires slip a bit but she came out fine, ahead she was going to go through a dark tunnel of overhanging pine and oak. She remembered this turn, not as tight as the one above, another look over her shoulder, she thought her stalker was still there. Inside the tunnel it was night like, and cold, again she pumped at the pedals, she knew that she would be going into the curve just as she came out into the light. Her eyes adjusted rapidly, she forced the handle bars into the turn, God no!  Her peripheral vision picked up a brown blur, she was hit from the side, the impact felt like a Mack truck.

***

“Janean,” She could here someone calling her name, from far away. It was dark, nighttime or was it a thick fog. “Janean,” The voice called again, maybe closer. There was pain all over, her head felt as if it had exploded. Her arm was being pulled at, a shake. Don’t do that it hurts, everything hurts, go away leave me in my pain! “Janean, its Dan, are you okay?”

Her eyes flickered to narrow slits, “Ouch,” She complained, “No I’m not okay, go away, let me die here.”

“Good, I thought you might really be injured,” Dan leaned back holding on to her hand.

“What hit me, all I remember was the force of this brown mass, and then being roughly awakened? You need to work on your bedside manner.”

“A herd of deer came across the road, lucky they butted you to the side, otherwise you would have been road kill.”

“Oh, deer. Who would of thought Bambi could be so careless?”

“Lot of people get injured up here, even killed by our deer, elk and moose.”

“So, how did you know that it was a deer that hit me?”

“Oh, I saw, I was up the road.”

She winced as she sat up, “You were behind me? You were the one following me? You were the one that made me ride like a maniac down this deer infested road and almost killed me? Some help you aren’t.”  Her hands went to her throbbing head.

“You want me to call the paramedics?”

“No, just take me and my bike back to town. Where is my bike?” She looked around.

“Not much left of it. Like I said you were lucky they nudged you to the side, the bike got trampled. I’ll put what’s left in the trunk and drive you back to town.”? He offered with a shrug.

“My bike!” She slumped and began sobbing. That bike had been important to her, her only means of transportation for years. She wasn’t sure she could survive without it. She gritted her teeth, restraining herself from putting all the blame on Dan. And why was he following her. All this would have to be resolved in time, right now she would have to shape up for work on Monday. Miss Chambers would disapprove of a battered and bruised librarian. She felt her face, a bump on the forehead, an abrasion on the cheek. With a sweep of hair across the bump, the cheek would be covered by a slathering of makeup, that should do it.

***

***

CHAPTER 20

***

Mr. Orville Husk, the janitor, was a vague shadow around the library. Janean had heard his name. Darlene had mentioned her scary confrontation. However, the young librarian had never met the man. Her work area was dusted and the waste basket emptied each morning. If a special request was made for cleaning or light repairs a note was tacked to janitor's supply closet door.

Janean rubbed her swollen eyes and sat behind her desk. Something was odd about the surface No missing journals or books. The inbox was as full as when she left Friday night. She then brought her eyes down to desktop level. Dust. She ran her finger across the surface, creating a furrow though the deep accumulation. “Hmm!”

She twisted in her chair, leaning over to view the near to overflowing waste basket. Standing she did a slow walk though the building noting the new unkemptness of the library. “Miss Clark.” Came the voice of the acting director. “Should you not be in your department, busying yourself with whatever you do.” Miss Bennett spoke with a sneer.

Janean was tempted to let it go. Avoid confrontation, but no, “Mr. Husk does not seem to have cleaned the library.” She observed Bennett's blank faced response. “Not for several days.”

“Well!” Bennett said, she then shot down the hall to her new office, slamming the door.

JANEAN SPEAKS TO OTHER STAFF MEMBERS, THEY HAVE SPOKEN TO MISS BENNETT, WHO REFUSES TO DISCUSS THE MATTER.

MISS CHAMBERS DIDN'T SHARE RESPONSIBILITIES WITH STAFF, BENNETT IS CLUELESS AS TO HOW TO PROCEED.

Orville Husk appeared to be a man of limited hygienic skills. Detective Kane had experienced filth before, he had roomed with friends, had been to crime scenes with over ripe bodies, Husk's abode was at an all new level. Kane used both hands to cover his nose and mouth, bent over he shuffled out the front door, hung over the porch rail, coughing up bile.

Kane calls for biohazard cleaners, not sure if body is inside.

***

CEMETERY—RHODES BROS.—INVESTIGATION, LAWYER, UNDERTAKER

HAVE KANE COMMENT ON JANEAN’S ACCIDENT AS HE RESPONDS TO CALL AT CEMETERY

Charlie and Gilbert Rhodes kept to the edge of the park like lawn, the rain was light, turning to heavy, being swept in off the Atlantic. Their hooded ponchos dripped water down their prominent noses, the Rhodes family was noted by their hawkish beaks. Each man carried a shovel, Charlie's resting on his shoulder, while Gilbert allowed his implement to drag along behind him. "Over here." Charlie called to Gilbert. Charlie led the way angling across the grass, detouring around angels kneeling in prayer, entwined hearts, and hands reaching toward the heavens. Each monument being a statement of loss and love.

"Gives me the creeps… Bein’ out here… God damn rain makes it even worse." Gilbert groused, but Gilbert was not one known to labor quietly. Charlie came to a stop, flipped the shovel off his shoulder, and buried the blade in the soft soil.

"This here’s the one." He rubbed his hands on his tattered jeans. "I can smell the money from here." He spoke gleefully.

Gilbert shook his head, "that ain't the smell I'm thinkin' of… Creepy, this whole business is just creepy."

Charlie stooped down, his hands traced the name across the headstone, "Chambers." He smirked, "sometimes it pays to read the newspaper, guy says she was buried with hundreds of thousands of dollars in jewels. And they're ours for the takin’." Charlie bent down and dug out the first shovel full of dirt, there was a sucking sound, the soil was soggy. It would be heavy work. Gilbert began digging reluctantly six feet away.

"What are you boys doing out here." Detective Kane spoke from behind the Rhodes brothers. Charlie Rhodes was leaning into the coffin, his hands rummaging about in search of the promised loot. Gilbert hearing Kane's voice, turned feet attempting to make a quick escape, he lost his footing on the slick mud, and began a slow motion tumble into the welcoming grave.

"Why Detective Kane, my brother here…" Charlie looked around for the  missing Gilbert, "where'd he go? Any ways we were taking a shortcut across the cemetery and found poor Miss Chambers coffin propped up here on this mountain of dirt. We was just getting ready to give you a call, felt it was our citizenly duty."  He then gave Kane an ingratiating smile.

"Get me out of this damn mess." Gilbert clawed at the edge of the grave, attempting to extricate himself from Miss Chambers' eternal resting place. "I don't care how much jewelry the old lady had, just get me out of here. Charlie you’re damned ideas never conduct any good."

"Like you said Sgt. Kane that fool article in the paper was going to bring out some idiots like the Rhodes boys here. I've been watching the place, more so than usual, an' here they come tonight." Hank Griswold the cemetery caretaker looked at the damage done, and began reviewing what would need to be done to correct it. "I'll have to get a crew out here first thing, and rebury the poor lady."

"Sorry, once the boys here opened the coffin we will have to bring out the forensic team, it has become a crime scene requiring a full investigation." Kane looked over the two career criminals, "can't you boys do anything right?" The detective dreaded the thought of all the paperwork, and the manpower that was going to be involved with this prank.

"Like I said detective, my brother here and me, we were just cutting across the cemetery. Weren't doing no harm… Found the coffin here, nothing in it 'sept Miss Chambers." Charlie looked over at the occupant of the coffin, "and she ain't in too good a shape."

“And where is the jewelry she was buried with?” The detective asked with a frown. The dispatcher had woken Kane just as he had slid into deep sleep.

Charlie Rhodes shrugged, “Ain’t none.”

There is no jewelry—where is it, was it ever there-who has it.

Archibald Crick, Miss Chambers lawyer delivered the jewelry to the undertaker, who placed them on this Chambers, and insured they were in the coffin when she was buried. Or did the Rhodes Brothers somehow hide the jewels before Kane came on the scene.

We will have to have follow-up on the investigation, the Rhodes Brothers coming and going, and Sgt. Dan grieving over all the time spent on this case. Where are the missing jewels? What implications does the missing jewels have to the d

We will have to have follow-up on the investigation, the Rhodes Brothers coming and going, and Sgt. Dan grieving over all the time spent on this case. Where are the missing jewels? What implications does the missing jewels have to the death of?

***

Conrad Jessop, his father, and his father's father prospered by serving the Chambers family for many generations. They provided their lawyerly service to the Chambers, and the other wealthy families of Somerset. Mr. Jessop studied the will of the late Miss Chambers. "The will explicitly states, and describes the jewelry that she wished to be buried with." Lawyer Jacobs raised his eyes over his half glasses and proceeded, "Stanfield the mortician, was not pleased. He insisted that he was not bonded to bury anyone with jewelry, money, or firearMiss Don't see why anyone would want to be buried with a gun, not in any shape to use it." He chuckled to himself, amused with his bit of humor. Kane was too tired to respond.

"So the jewelry… You collected it from the mansion, her house. And you delivered it to the Stanfield funeral home, is that correct?" Kane scribbled in his notebook. "And Stanfield, what did he do with the jewelry."

"Don't know… My responsibility ended when I delivered the items to the funeral home. That's what lawyers do, we follow directions, and that's it. We don't add, we don't subtract, we just do things our clients, or in this case our late clients direct us to do. I gave the jewelry to Stanfield, that ended my responsibility." Jessop was beginning to sound defensive, Sgt. Kane was familiar with the defensive tone.

Detective Kane followed Jasper Stanfield around the preparation room. The undertaker was falling behind with his work. He boxed one customer, and the second was laid out on the slab ready for embalming. "So what you're telling me Sgt. Kane, the jewelry was missing, nowhere to be seen. Is that right?" Stanfield picked up a long metal tube attach to a hose, smiling at the detective. Kane released a shudder, he knew what was coming next.

"Please," Kane pleaded, "this will just take a minute, just one more question."

The undertaker snickered, taking pleasure at Kane's discomfort. "I'm just going to give him a little poke, you're not squeamish now are you." Stanfield ran his fingers down the implement, taking pleasure in its shiny chrome surface, and its solid length; a piece of workmanship, the mortician took pride in owning.

Kane parried the tube to the side, "please, I'm leaving… Did anyone else have access to the coffin after you closed it… was there anyone in the parlor, or anywhere in the building? Do you recall?" Kane used the back of his hand to wipe perspiration from his forehead.

Stanfield played with his implement, flicking it in the air, as if he was fly fishing. "hmmm, I don't think so. Like right now, I'm the only one here, that's the way it is most times." He chuckled, “this isn't a place most people want to hang about. I sense that you would just a soon not be here.” He ended with a malicious smirk.

"If you can think of anything, remember someone being around, you'll let me know?" Kane asked.

"That I will. Now I'm going to get back to work.” Stanfield flicked his fishing rod with a smile of satisfaction, and Kane made a fast retreat for the exit, not wanting to see where the tube was going.

Charlie Rhodes was sitting in the interrogation room picking at his fingernails, and contemplating his plea. Sgt. Kane came through the door shoulders slumped bloodshot eyes, and wearing the same suit and shirt you been wearing for the past 48 hours. "Want some coffee?" Kane made the offer to Rhodes.

Charlie Rhodes looked away from his fingernail project, "I know about your coffee, it ain't worth spit." He shook his head.

Kane dropped into a chair across from the felon, giving a look to his coffee in the Styrofoam cup, "ain't that bad." He opened the thick folder, Rhodes rap sheet, several inches thick.

Rhodes knowing the ropes was well aware what the detective was looking through. "Me and Gilbert… You know were just a little misunderstood. Something comes up missing and everybody comes looking for us. Now don't you think that's just a little unfair detective. Don't you think the Rhodes boys should get a little slack now and then." Charlie went back to picking at his nails.

Kane flipped through several documents, finding the one he wanted he quickly scanned down the form and stopped. "Inventory of the casket indicates there was no jewelry." He looked to Charlie Rhodes for a response. Charlie was focusing on a thumb nail, didn't seem to have much interest in Keynes interrogation.

"Is there anything you'd like to say Charlie, I mean the jewelry, valued at something like $10,000 is missing. What exactly did you and Gilbert do with." Kane prodded. Charlie couldn't get his focus off the annoying thumb nail.

"I sure could use some sand paper… file down this nail." Charlie ran the tip of his, thumb along the side of his pants. "Irritates the holy hell out of me." He said. Kane ran his fingers through his thick hair.

"Charlie you need to focus on these charges, you and Gilbert could do a lot of time if these jewels aren't accounted for." Kane was tired, his voice was raw, and his eyes were on fire.

"Well Sgt. like I've been trying to say all along there weren't no jewels in that coffin when we found it. Not a damn one." Rhodes nodded giving emphasis to the statement.

Kane scratched at the stubble along his jaw line, "lawyer Jessop delivered the jewels to the funeral home. Then Mr. Stanfield the undertaker insist that he put the jewelry on the body, and closed up the coffin." Kane glared at Rhodes, "so what do you have to say, you open the casket, you take the jewels, where did you hide them." He attempted to intimidate the suspect with a hard stare, but his muscles couldn't gather the strength to construct the withering stare he used to intimidate suspects.

"I just can't help it Sgt., there were no jewels, not a one, nadda, zilch… There were no jewels." Rhodes was insistent.

Kane closed the folder with a slam of his hand, shook his head, and said, "get yourself a lawyer, you boys are going to need one."

Janean needs to be inserted here, she needs to get in on the act, gaining access to on the interrogations with the Rhodes boys were up to, the missing jewelry, we need to get Bennett invo

lved.

Red Herrings:

Ian Dole

Miss Bennett

Popper Popejoy

Mary Smart

Porter

***

WORKING WITH A DQAMAGED FACE, MARY COSMETIC ADVICE

***

"Would you look at this mess." Kane pulled his patrol car into what passed for a driveway at the Rhodes place. It was a place to discard broken and tangled implements of work: a lobster boat with a hole the size of a seal, knotted and tangled rigging, broken lobster traps, and...the officer gave up his perusal. What he wanted would be inside. He looked over the debris again, Maybe not." He took care negotiating the maze to the front door where he knocked, no answer. He pounded. From inside he thought he heard a muffled voice and things being tossed about. Harvey Briggs, Officer Kane was on a first name basis with the felon, pulled the door open. Briggs scratched his crotched and offered his hand to Kane. Familiar with the many varieties of communicable deceases the officer deferred, nodding instead. He held out his document, "Warrant to search the premises, you know the routine Briggs." Kane looked around the yard, "Why don't you have a seat outside, somewhere." He motioned with a vague wave of his arm.

The Rhodes boys were not much for housework, and none of  their earning went to maids service. Kane felt that calling it a pig stye would be an insult to pigs. He kicked past empty beer cans, pizza cartons and pizza, every possible garment of clothing, nothing was hung up, so it would seem. In one corner was a grease covered engine block, camshafts and cracked cylinders lay scattered about. “I need backup this isn't going to work.” He said as he took a calcium tablet from his pocket. An archaeological team would be required to sift down through this. Chief is going to be beyond angry.

***

THEY WILL MENTION LIGHTS AT THE CHAMBERS MANSION

Detective Kane hadn’t had much sleep, between the ever rising murder rate, the grave robbers and keeping the mad librarian at a distance. Hunched over breakfast at the Main Street Cafe, he poked at his egg yolk with the edge of his toast. Why did I even bother. Along with loss of sleep he was also having a loss of appetite. He dropped the toast on top of the assaulted egg, and slugged down his coffee. Damn, now the coffee doesn’t taste right. The job and Janean Clark were getting to be too much for him.

From the booth behind Kane heard two familiar voices, Niven and skinner, two contrary locals. The detective did his best to ignore their conversation, however with both being hard of hearing, the volume was difficult to ignore.

“Got one of those darn phone calls the other night, right in the middle of Wheel. You know how I feel about Vanna and the Wheel.” Niven was easy to recognize, a Southerner transplanted to the north country. “Ain’t nothin’ worse than interruptin’ my TV time.”

“Yeah, know what you mean.” Skinner was a man of much fewer words, he listened most often letting Niven talk for the both of them.

“An that’s the show that lady near missed wining the million bucks. An I get a damn call. One those infernal telemarkateer people. Damn them!” He wiped at his mouth. “Only thing there weren’t nobody there but non-stop talk. Think it were one of those recorded things, call ‘em robo calls.”

Skinner grunted his understanding, letting Niven know he was still on track. “The guy, well the robo thing just kept on spillin’ out all this stuff about winning back the Congress for the good ol’ party, who cares. A course they was asking for money, anyone phones ya’ they is asking for money. Funnny thing they never said who they was. Country hick like me knows they gotta say who they is. Get’s me ta’ thinkin’, is this on the up-and-up. Is this here call a scam. It’s one a those things, they ask you to press a button on the phone, then you get charged. They don’t say who they is or what you get’s charged.” Niven adjusted his gut over his belt and sat up. “Sound like a scam to you?” He asked Skinner.

Skinner was chewing on his tooth pick eyes glazed. “Damn you Skinner, you done gone an’ drifted off on me. An I’m jus’ gettin’ ta the good part.” Niven leaned in to Skinner, lowering his voice so now only half the cafe could hear his yarn. “Gives me an idear. Hows ‘bout you an’ me put together a tape. We do somethin’ like this: Evening folks I’m the Revrand Billy Bob Sunday. Sure you heard ‘bout the awful tornado we had down here. Tore things up awful bad. Our friends and neighbors is in a world of hurt. We has been workin’ an prayin’ to no end. Now we ain’t the sorta folks that ask for a handout, that jus’ ain’t or way. But we are in sore need of a place to congregate, a place to raise our voice to the almighty. Then there is our young soldiers, comin’ home from war, wounded and suffrin’ in need of prayer and counslin’. If you was kind enough to press the number eight on your phone a small donation will come to our God fearing community.” Sweat beaded on Niven forehead, he brushed at the spittle on his lips

Niven got a puzzled look from Skinner, “I haven’t heard about no Tornado around here, and since when you got a church.” He pulled the pick from his mouth tossing it on the floor. Niven’s eye lids squinted.

“Man, don’t ya get it,” He came in even closer, “It’s a scam, ours, jus’ you and me and maybe millions of bucks. How many fools get sucked into guys like Jimmy Swaggart or Tammy Fay and Jimmy Baker, ‘Praise the Lord’, more like praise the green backs.” Skinner was thinking he ran his tongue around inside his right cheek. Niven was reassured that his buddy had gotten the gist of his plan.

“How much money you need to start?” Niven and Skinner had a long history together. The ideas came from the talker and the listener was expected to provide the cash. There were a few schemes that had brought in big bucks, most failed, or the law got wise to them. They never did hard time, local lockup was their harshest punishment. County judges recognized their diminished capacity, taking pity on them.

Niven looked around, he then recognized that he had attracted an audience. He jerked his head back, indicating the exit. “Outside, don’t want to give this one away.”

Niven and Skinner stood on the sidewalk under the cafe canopy, they watched the rainwater cascade down the gutter. “Think of it, this kinda money we could live in Jamaica or the Bahamas. Sitting on the beach drinkin’ Pina Coladas.” Niven gave his friend a broad smile.

“How much?” Skinner was getting impatient.

CAN WE THROW IN SOMETHING THAT MIGHT GIVE A LEAD TO GILCREST, IAN OR THE REPORTER? IT WOULD BE BEST IF THIS WERE NOT A FILLER SCENE ONLY.

“Know what that circus guy said, there’s a fool born every second.” Niven gave Skinner a knowing nod.

“You sure that’s the way it goes?”

“Something like that

“There’s a sucker born every minute.” Niven jumped at the big voice coming over his shoulder. Kane stepped from around the corner, “Get it right Niven. Your scheme is called wire fraud, a Federal offense. Get yourself put away for fifteen years, if you’re lucky, life if you aren’t.” He gave the two schemers a malicious smile. “I’ll be watching the two of you. I see any scams I’ll make a call to the FBI.” He gave them a nod and started away.

“I’ll be damned if I let that sprout order me ‘round.” He grabbed at Kane’s sleeve. “I know my rights, I’m a Vet, I served in the war.” Brown saliva was dribbling down Niven’s chin, his face red, his eyes open wide. Skinner knew things were getting dangerous, the old warrior started talking about his years of service, he could lose control. Fact was, the Vet hadn’t made it through basic training. He had served enough days to qualify for GI benefits, of which he milked every last penny possible. And the only war he saw action in were his favorite John Wayne movies.

Skinner pulled at his friend’s arm. “We got bigger fish to fry. Come on buddy.” Niven wiped at his chin with the back of his hand and spit a stream at Detective Kane’s feet.

“Yeah, I’m done here. Keep it in mind sonny, I served my country, not like you.”  He walked past Kane, shoving his arm into the Detective. Kane let it go, his old man always told him, “Never get in a pissing contest with a skunk. You never win.” He was happy to be done with Niven. One of these days those two were going to do themselves in, falling on a pitch fork or blowing themselves up with one of their anti terrorist traps out at their adjoining farms. Kane’s stomach growled, his murder case just wouldn’t let him go, and contending with the local dolts didn’t help, he popped another calcium tablet.

***

Sleep had eluded Janean. Before early morning light she dressed in jeans, turtleneck and her down jacket, she would walk herself to exhaustion, then sleep. So she hoped. Walking up the hill past the Methodist church and the Somerset Women’s Club she observed lights coming on in bedrooms and kitchens. There were shops to open, customers to feed and congregations in need of preaching. But most homes were still dark, residents nestled under warm blankets, coveting that last hour of sleep.

She pumped her arms, stretched out her legs, inhaling the cold morning air. As the road ascended into the country the sidewalk disappeared. She walked on the right hand side of the road, facing the oncoming traffic, if any should appear. Silence dominated, only the occasional sound from a cricket or the swoop of a nuthatch intruded. Her eyes were focused on the road ahead and her ears tuned to  the road behind. Falling victim to a drowsy dairyman and his truck was to be avoided. The eastern sky, thick with cloud attempted to obscure the rising sun. A faint glow escaped, morphing from pink, to amber to gold. The colors provided a sense of warmth, if not the actual product.

Ahead Janean saw a shiny object, something reflecting the light, even if limited. It came from the shoulder of the road, planted in the chunks of rock and gravel. Most roadways had collections of broken glass, discarded DVDs, or wedding rings. She thought about that, what sort of story would that be; a lovers fight, she throws the ring out the window, he speeds on. No she had never seen a discarded wedding ring, there was always the chance, a first time. She stopped, toed at the object with her shoe, and bent down. She poked at it with her finger, then pulling it lose from the rocks. Not a wedding band, heavy, the sort a man might wear. She brushed at it, encrusted with dirt and sand, it seemed to have jewels around the sides. She closed her hand and pocketed her find. At home she would clean it off, out here there was too much chance of damaging an object that might have some value. Janean pushed on past fields, through tree shrouded lanes, and then her legs and lungs told her it was time to return.

On the return she felt the weight of the ring in her pocket. The ring possessed a story, a story she wanted to solve. Back in her apartment she ran to the kitchen sink. Running water over the new found treasure, she felt like an explorer unearthing a find. Eureka! It was large, and heavy, the face had three shield and the word VE-RI-Tas, and Harvard below. Jewels were implanted around the edges, and inside the initials TJC and the year 1912 was inscribed. The well worn inscription could be read with adjustments of lighting and the use of a magnifying glass.

TJC, she mused, was he a native of Somerset? The jewels indicated he came from a family of some wealth. Harvard at that time was a bastion of the landed elites. TJC, she went to her phone, searching a family genealogy she had scanned before. Thomas Justice Chambers. Miss Chambers father, and a 1912 graduate of Harvard College. The stolen jewelry, and why did the thief toss this piece to the roadside. She thought of Officer Dan, he was going to be unhappy, actually he was going to go into a major tirade on tampering with evidence and removing an object from a crime scene. How was she too know it’s significance until she brought it home and washed it up. That would be of no consequence. He would go into his officious mode and she would receive a tongue lashing, no matter.

She remembered why she had gone out on her jaunt. Bed and sleep would no longer be possible. She fired up her coffee maker, showered and placed a call to her favorite cop.

***

“So, why did the robber toss the ring out the car window?” She asked the grumpy Officer Dan. Bad sign, Standing behind his desk, his face scrunched, his hands went to his hips.

“Who assigned you to this detail? You are the civilian that ruined the crime scene, taking it home, running it through the dish washer. Whatever you did to it.” He was steamed. She had explained where she found it, how she had carefully taken it home and washed it. And no dishwasher was involved, she only wished she had said appliance. Why did he feel it was necessary to exagewrate so. Didn’t he want the facts. Get it right buddy. Hands in pockets, she pouted in the chair across from his desk. I’m sitting here so much I need my own nameplate on it. “For all we know it could have fallen from his sack as he was leaving town.”

“Great now you are telling me the thief robbed the mortuary, threw their loot in a gunny sack, with a hole in the bottom and trudged out of town, dispersing goodies as he went. Sounds like a scene right out of Dickens.” That got a blank face from the detective. “Dickens, he was an English author, you are probably not familiar with.” He stood up straight and threw his shoulders back.

“Yeah! I know who the guy is.” His face turning red, veins pulsing in his neck. He glared at her, “Get up, we have to go see what is left of your crime scene…if you can still find it.”

***

Janean stared out the patrol car window as it cruised at a leisurely speed, eying the terrain for a recognizable feature. This was their second pass. Kane was beginning to lose patience, and making ominous treats of legal action to be taken against the librarian. Several cars had passed, one filled with children recognizing their favorite librarian who always seemed to be pursued by the law. They pointed and waved. Janean responded with a forced smile. “Your adoring fans.” He grumped. Her eyes went back to the roadside shoulder.

“Stop here, I think this is it.” She shouted. She wasn’t certain, but just maybe. She needed to get out of the car, away from Kane’s toxic karma.

He pulled the car to a stop. “Don’t move!” He demanded. “These are the rules, you stay on the asphalt. Do not step anywhere near the site, if this is the site. And…well I don’t know what else, not right now.” He unbuckled and began his exit, she didn’t move. He turned back to her. “What’s wrong? Get out, lets go.”

“I was just waiting for orders, Sir!” She gave him her her best attempt at a military salute.

“Cute. Just stay on the road, find the spot, and stand back. He was never going to forgive or forget her foot print in Poppers tire track. Or what she believed to be the dopers track.

Walking along the road, she admonished herself. If she had been thinking she would have marked the spot with a small stack of rocks, something distinctive. No. That didn’t register as necessary at the time. “Here it is.” She called to Kane, as she avoided his on rushing charge.

“Stand back, stand back.” He was frothing at the mouth waving back Janean who stood in the middle of the road. “Where is, where is the spot?” He was bent forward, surveying for a crater or some such distortion in the ground. He straightened, and turned to Janean, “Well, get over here show me, but don’t step on the damn thing.”

“But you said…”

“I know what I said, get over here and watch those shoe laces of yours.” He was snarling. She looked at here laces, they were tied, at least for now. Step, step, out to the edge of the pavement she pointed, “There.” He followed her finger.

“Where, I don’t see anything.” He was down on his haunches, eyes scanning across the ground. “I don’t seed a thing, get down here!” Another nasty snarl from Kane. She backed away, he turned to look up at her. “Now!”

“No. Like you said, I’m not assigned to this detail. And your tone of voice is not nice.”

“I’m a cop, I’m not paid to be nice.”

“Fine, take me back to town.” She now looked toward Somerset. “Forget it, I’ll walk.”

“Jees Lady. Okay,” He stood, “I’ll try…I’ll be nice.” His palms went out raised to the sky. “Please.” She walked over next to Kane, stooped and pointed to a minor dent in the ground surrounded by a rim of gritty soil. It was not the crater Kane had been searching for.

“Hunh. Thought it would be bigger.” He stood, “Go sit in the car.” He commanded. She didn’t move, feet planted, and arms crossed she gave Kane her version of the drop dead look. “Yeah, okay, would you please sit in the car while I do some preliminaries. Thank you Ms Clark.” Then came his poor facsimile of a smile.

THE COOKIE TRAIL IS ON THE WAY TO THE RHODES BOYS. THEY WILL CONFESS TO STEALING THE STASH FROM MISS BENNETTS HOME.

KANE’S OFFICE LOOKING AT AUTOPSY REPORT

Autopsy Report

Janean held her hand to her head, she did have a headache. Why did he keep having these appointments early in the morning, and the sun in my eyes? Perhaps they taught this at the police academy? How to torture the civilians. “Could I have some coffee this morning, my head…it is aching.” With her right hand she was rubbing circles on her forehead. Darkness circled her eyes, no makeup, and her hair had a coarse brushing. Now her head would ache in earnest, not to mention the pain to her stomach. It had to be done, all for the cause.

“Sure.” Officer Dan was surprised by her interest in the department’s coffee, nothing but complaints prior. He slipped, as best a man of his size could slip, from his chair and out to the improvised break closet. He lifted the hot, empty carafe, though he would never think of the word, looked around and sighed, and whimpered. He filled the coffee maker with water, added grounds from the open can to the filter, and switched the machine back on. He then waited, and waited, and waited with no sign of patience.

“Here we go.” He returned with his fresh, canned coffee. Janean gave her best impersonation of a smile. She held the mug in her hands, the warmth was appreciated, the processed aroma was not. He sat behind his organized desk, mug in hand and look of self satisfaction on his face.

“Now let’s see.” He glanced across the neatly stacked reports, some in folders, some single paged, some several pages stapled together. There was a twitch at the side of his mouth, a momentary focus, and then he leaned back. He seemed to have lost his train of thought.

Janean took a sip of the coffee, offered a weak smile, clearing her throat. “You were saying…” Maybe that would bring him back to where his memory faded away.

Kane took a pencil from his desk, and began rapping out a tattoo on the edge of a folder. His demeanor had changed, the affable Officer Kane had taken on a defensive mode. Janean took another sip of the vile brew, someone needed to train these people how to brew real coffee.  The Coffee, the room, she was beginning to sweat. The cops musical interlude was doing nothing to ease her unease. Say something Kane!

His pencil continued the rap, rap, rap. It put him into his thinking zone, that and his tongue, rubbing the inside of his cheek. “Okay, about my suspect list…” he said as if ordering carrot cake at the Mary’s coffee house. Janean lowered the mug to her lap, squeezing. Now the room was hot. What did he know? What could he know, I’m innocent, I’m a librarian! He used the pencil to point to one stack, then twisted it air making circles. “Autopsy report, the director, the late director Miss Chambers dies, you are on the scene instantaneously. Hmm.” The pencil went back to its tapping mode. “Fingerprints on the weapon, yours and that kid…Grunge. Why don’t kids use real names: Frank, Benny, Joe? What kinda name is Grunge? The open window, more prints from you.”

He fell quit. The room was quiet and hot, the ticking of his watch seemed deafening. He didn’t look at her, but she sensed that his psyche was latching on to every misfire of her neurons. And they were misfiring. Does he want a confession? I did it, cuff me, read me my rights!   She felt as though she was spiraling down into a black hole.

He jolted her awake, “You know the routine, don’t leave town, I call you come in for another one of these chats.” His tone was flat in humorless.

***

“Coffee?” Mary smart asked Janean, then giving her an appraising scan “What happened to you?

Janean responded with a sour look. “I’ve given up the brew. Kane gave me the best he had to offer. What an offense to the noble bean. And my appearance, I wanted to play up the sleepless nights and pounding headache. Both are true, but I made cosmetic adjustments for emphasis.”

Mary’s eyes darted about the room, and in a conspiratorial whisper, “What did you find?”

Janean leaned close to her friend, whispering, “First thing when they let me in back I dumped all their brewed coffee, if you want to call it that, down the sink. Then In Kane’s office I asked for a cup. He was happy to share. Then when He as gone I went through the files on this desk, I knew it would take some time to cook up fresh sludge. Everything was there. I almost lost it, again, flipping to the photos…without warning there they were…more sleepless nights.” Mary put her hand on her friend’s.

“So what did you learn?”

“Nothing that I didn’t know already. Well I didn’t know the time of death. As Kane enjoys pointing out, she died and then I was there. Or I killed her and I was there all along, his take.”? Janean sat up and Mary followed. “I will have a coffee, and cake, I need something to re-balance my taste buds and blood sugar.”

Janean toyed with the napkin on the bistro table. What did I learn? What do they not know, what did they miss?

Mary brought two coffees and two pieces of the carrot cake.  Between bites Janean began thinking out load with Mary. “Other than time of death there wasn’?t much that I could extract. There are those elements tat they don’t seem to be considering. The misplaced book. That may be a stretch but to me it didn’t look right. It was at Chambers’ side, opposite the stack kicked off the shelf.”? Janean paused thinking, envisioning the director’s legs dislodging the valuable items to the floor. She shook her head, then took another bite. “Hmm, the window was open and the kick stool. I saw no notes on that. Maybe I missed that. Kane, when he opened the window he reached unlocked and pushed up. His feet were on the floor. Me, I had to use the stool.”? Her head nodded as she reconstructed the scene in her head.

Mary was getting into the story, “So? What are you thinking?”

Janean contemplated with a lick of the frosting from her fork. “That’s a good frosting, would you share the recipe?”

“Never, my business depends upon it. Not on your life!” She laughed, but there was steel in her words.

“Yeah…so I’m thinking the person, man or woman, can’t be sexist about this, is vertically challenged. Short, like me.”

“And the other thing about the stool; when I shoved myself out the window I pushed the stool away from the wall…for every action there is an opposite and equal reaction, Newton’s third law of motion.”

“So?”

“The stool was used by a short person to leave through the window. And I don’t think they came in through the window, no dirt or mud on the floor. They did find shoe prints outside. The person had the good sense to smear them as he stepped onto the grass and made his escape.”?

“What does this tell us?”

“We are in search of a short person, what, maybe sixty per cent of the township could fit the category?

“Nothing seems to have been stolen from the room, so I don’t see a book connection. I’m stumped; what do you think?”

“The environmental issues have been hot. I can’t imagine anyone killing for political, environmental issues.” Mary gave that some more thought then chuckled, “?Oh, I forgot the Unabomber. I guess we all have our hot button issues.”

Janean gave the proprietor a sideways smile, finished her cake and the last of the coffee, “Would that include a frosting recipe?”?

CHAPTER 21

INVENTORY OF CHAMBERS ESTATE—MISSING ITEMS (JEWELRY, GOLD CERTIFICATES, RECENT FINANCIAL LEDGERS)

***

***

***

CHAPTER 21

GAME STORE, SHOPLIFTER, GOLD CERTIFICATE

***

Kane muttered to himself, his foot tapping a staccato beat on the shop floor. The Wizard’s Palace, the house of overpriced electronic games. When I was a kid we played sandlot baseball or went to the gym and shot baskets. He shook his head. The Chief was short staffed, but the department was always short staffed. Kane, got a call, “Wizard’s Palace, can you cover it.” Chief saying can you cover it meant, “do it!” A murder case, missing jewelry and who knew what else, now petty theft. I need to go to a big city, there they know how to treat their detectives like professionals. The clerk, not much more than a kid was helping one customer, and a grandfather and his young truant running wild grabbing at everything were next in line.

“So you know all about this stuff?” Kane was going to kill time, might as well strike up a conversation. Gramps graying head came up.

“Look at this hair of mine. Do I look like some whiz kid. Don’t know a thing, ‘cept the kids going to break my credit card. Don’t get down here often enough. Grand parents are all about spoiling the kids. Something we didn’t have time to do as parents.”

Kane grunted understanding, But he didn’t believe it. Not a good way to build character or creativity. Might be making another shoplifter.

The grandfather approached the counter where grandson had a stack of games Kane couldn’t identify and really had no desire in cultivating an interest in. The clerk tapped the prices into the register, “Four seventy five fifty eight is the total.” He softened the blow with a smile. The credit card in Gramps hand shook.

Four seventy five fifty eight is good—John Grisham used this form in Sycamore Row

“Bit much isn’t it?”

The clerk kept the smile going. “Hey, prices are artificially inflated. Kids demand, inventory is low. Supply and demand.” He offered a shrug and more smiles along with the lesson in Economics 101.

“Okay,” he looked down at his grandson’s pleading eyes, “Where’s the receipt, I’ll sign.” The clerk passed the credit card receipt and pen over to his clueless customer.

As Gramps and grandson were leaving. The clerk was placing the receipt in the till, he started fussing with some of the bills. “Been getting all this old stuff, funny looking.” The clerk said. Kane grunted, irritated he wanted to get back to his muder case.

“Yeah, and you called about a shop lifter.” Kane said. The kid continued to toy with the bills in the register. He didn’t respond to Kane’s question. The detective brought him back to reality with a loud snap of his fingers.

“Wha?” The clerk looked up, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah. This punk comes in, looks around and runs out with a box off our display for the new X-550.” Kane nodded, not knowing a new X-550 from an old X-540 or whatever. Kids and what they spend their money on.

Kane took notes on what the shoplifter looked like, what a X-550 was and did. He flipped his notebook closed, the clerk went back to the cash register, pushed the no-sale key, the drawer opened with a bang, and he began looking at the ten dollar bills. Arm folded the detective watched, then asked, “So what’s the problem? Bills don’t look right?”

“They’re old…real old, but they look new.” Kane stepped closer, looking over the clerks shoulder.

Let me she one.” Kane, he took one from the clerk, rubbing the bill between his fingers. “Seen a lot of these?”

The kid pulled at his scraggly hair. “Past few weeks started seeing them come in. One or two at a time. Don’t remember any faces to go along with them. Probably seen five or six all together.”

“Hunh.” Kane rubbed at his jaw. His mind went back to his conversation with lawyer Jessup and the contents of the Chambers estate. Something about old silver certificates missing. He took one of the bills, rubbed it between his fingers, looked at the date and other markings. “Look to be real…not counterfeit, don’t think they are. How about, I give you a receipt. I’ll have them looked over.”  The case that just keeps giving, and giving. He took the bills from the clerk.

More loot from the Chambers mansion. “Let me know if you see any more of these. Try to get a name or face for me.” Wasn’t a waste of time after all.

Miss Bennett is laundering money through library?

Detective Dan Kane approached the Somerset Library checkout desk. His favorite librarian was doing her magic with a mother and child ahead of him. “Hi Tommy,” the librarian cooed, beaming a smile, “These look interesting. Dinosaurs.” Janean removed the bookcards, stamped them with a date and wrote the library card number next to the date and inserted a date due card in the book pocket. She carried on a conversation with the young library user and discussed recipes with his mother. It was labor intensive, but the young librarian saw it as a good way of interacting with customers and knowing interests.

Sending them on their way Kane stepped up next. Janean stretched out her arm, automatically expecting he wanted to check out a book or books. However, his hands were empty. “Oh, but you don’t read, now do you, Detective Kane.”

Kane took an envelope from his pocket and slid several bills across the counter to the librarian. “Seen these?” Was his gruff question. She scowled at Kane.

“Sure I’ve seen ten dollar bills before.”

“Give it to me.” He demanded. She handed the bills back to the dyspeptic officer. Kane tapped the bill, pointing to the seal on the front. “It’s blue, the number ten is blue and the serial numbers are blue.” He sounded like a bear growling. He then rubbed at his stomach. “See the date here, 1934. This ain’t new money. And I got a person says it came from your register there.”

“Are you suggesting that me, and the Little old ladies are cranking out funny money in the back room?” Her head nodded toward the staff workroom.

His brow furrowed, “No, but I’m asking if you have seen these in your register. Janean shook her head, turned and stabbed at the no-sale key on the register, the drawer flew open with a bang. “Do you want to come around and look at our freshly printed geld?” She stood aside to let him inspect the till.

“What do we have here?” Kane could have just unwrapped his most coveted Christmas present. His big hands extracted a stack of ten dollar bills that he sorted into well used bills and those that appeared not to have had any circulation at all.

Kane forgot about his acidic stomach, he beamed, “This is getting curiouser and curiouser. What have you girls been up to.” Janean’s mouth dropped open as Kane fanned out the ten dollar silver certificates. “Someone doesn’t know what they are doing here. Each one of these bills are worth a minimum of one hundred dollars, some could be much more.”

Janean flung her hands out, palms up and shrugged. “I dunno.”  Strange, how did that get there and why. “So that’s about a thousand dollars there. I think you need to talk to Miss Bennett, she is responsible for the library money transactions.”

“Did I hear my name being mentioned, and what is the Detective doing with my cash register?” The Acting Director glowered at her librarian and the representative of the police department. “Do you have a warrant? You have no business snooping in my department.”

CHAPTER 22

GRAND THEFT AUTO—JANEAN TALKS TO MARY ABOUT DOLE—GOES AWAY UNCONVINCCED

Ian’s pickup was observed pulling into the far end of the staff parking lot, far from the few lights that cast a weak glow through the lowering fog. He parked, then strode off to the Social Science building; the observer hunched in the bushes knew where Dole was going, and how long he would be there. Dole’s arrival was anticipated tonight; he was to be a guest speaker in Mr. Elliot’s economics class. The conservationist was invited to discuss permaculture, and its applications in Somerset.

The person in hiding crouched low between cars and trucks. With silent steps they wove their way to the side of Dole’s vehicle. His behaviors had been studied over time; the truck would not be locked. He locked nothing. Pulling on the handle the door gave as expected. The figure slipped into the passenger seat, and closed the door, extinguishing the interior light. Hands searched along the seats, over the dash and finally to the glove box. Eyes peered into the darkness. With a whoosh the door was flung open. Ian looked into Janean’s startled face, her chin quivered. “What are you doing here?” He spat, anger twisted his mouth.

Janean body quaked under the weight of Dole’s fury.     With a furtive flip of her fingers she hoped to close the glove box, and cover what she seen, flip the glove door closed. Ian caught her hand with a steely grip. “Your hurting me,” she cried.

“Out he demanded!” His voice had a harsh edge, no more Mr. Nice Guy. Head bowed she slid from the seat  

 Then the world began to spin

Will later explain how it happened, belt in chain

GRAND THEFT AUTO

Ian Dole was not one to let an opportunity go. Chalmers Holmes, professor of agricultural science at the  community college gave him an invitation to speak to his class at least once a semester. This was the night. Driving in from the farm he parked his truck and began the walk into the Ag Department.

Dole's arrival had been anticipated. His talk to Holmes' class was not significant news, however, it might be discussed over coffee at the cafe or the Higher Grounds. The watcher hiding in the bushes at the edge of the parking lot had heard of this event. As the tall figure disappeared into the campus complex, Janean Clark stood and brushed the leaves and grass from her knees.

The parking lot was quiet now, with a casual gait Janean walked along the rows of cars and trucks. Coming to Dole's vehicle, she gave the lot a last survey, then ducked into the unlocked truck. She knew it would be unlocked. The eccentric farmer didn't believe in locks. The only key he owned was for the truck's ignition. She left the door open, she needed the dome light to carryout her investigation. Neat freak, she noted the lack clutter the average person collects in their travels. Especially for a guy. But not Ian Dole.

Her hand went to the glove box, she pulled open the door. But then there was a blur, the hand coming from outside. Yanking at her wrist. There were no words, a subtle animal like growl. She looked at the attacker. Anger. No more nice guy. Ian Dole's face was contorted, nostrils flared.

“I was...” Janean's chin quivered as she began her justification for burglarizing Dole's truck. The iron grip and transmogriphied countenance convinced her that a rational explanation was not going to be accepted.

“Out!” The man of few words demanded, along with a not so gentle pull at her arm. I got the idea. She slid out, he released her hand and she squeezed her way around Dole.

Her face was hot with anger and embarrassment. For a moment they glared at one another. The word, “Out!” raged in her head. She knew there was nothing to say, body slumped she found her way back to the bushes where she had left her bike.

Tears streaking her face she wanted to scream and rage. What was I thinking. Leave the detective work to Officer Dan. What a fool I am!  

Riding back to town her thoughts ranged from murdering Dole to joining a nunnery to hide her shame. “But why his level of anger. I was only breaking into his truck. Yeah. And what is in the glove box anyway. You’re not a detective. Remember! Let it go.” She fumed and stewed all the way home.

Memories of the gun will come and go

She will try to get back to the truck, verify what she saw

Grunge will refer to Ian as coach when he is with Darlene Smart

The pistol has to be fired into Gilcrest’s face—Gilcrest will tumble back, down the stairs making an escape of short duration.

Janean goes in search of the gun in Ian’s glove box

Where will the truck be

How will Janean know its location

How long will he be away from it

Does she find the gun

Will he catch her in the act

What will she be thinking

What will she say if caught?

Does this advance the story

DISCUSSING IAN DOLE WITH MARY, JANEAN IS UNCONVINCED

***

FOOD CO-OP

Janean was intent upon reading the label on a jar of raw, organic, unfiltered honey. She sensed someone had moved in next to her, however the drama of the label would not allow her to be distracted. "Is that as interesting as the latest teen novel."  She looked up to see Ian Dole's smirk, or was it a genuine smile. The man was enigmatic. He took a honey jar from the shelf, "I'm baking bread today, meeting of the ecoterrorist tonight." Again he flashed that disconcerting smile.

"What a guy," The clerk exhaled, as she followed Dole outside with a fixed stare. Janean shrugged as she placed her selections on the counter.

"You think so?"

"A friend and I were hiking Mount Katahdin, along the Knife Edge, he let us tag along. Good thing, the weather turned foul, sleet and heavy winds. His hiking skills kept us from being blown off the ridge. You should see his muscles, we spent several nights camping with him. He's the real guy alright." She had to shake herself loose from thoughts of his rippling muscles as she began ringing up the sale.

Janean mused upon the many faces of Mr. Dole: The radical environmentalist; Outdoorsman; bread baker; and soother or savior of young women in the lurch. Would she ever know the real man?  Did she care?

CHAPTER 23

DOWNHILL RACER, SHOPLIFTER (HAS TO HAVE RING OR SOMETHING ON HIS PERSON TO CONNECT WITH BENNETT)

CHANGE FOOTBALL TO A BOSTON RED SOX GAME

"Kill 'em! Kill 'em!" Dan Kane, private citizen at the moment was shouting himself red in the face. Crouched, fists clenched he roared, "Cut 'em off at the knees." His face was planted in the television screen, a big screen at that.

"Kane, sit down your big ass is blocking the game." Homer Call cried out, Gyro ignored both. He was reading the specification for the Sf 3556 X 2. Sunday Night Football was a ritual with the three men. Kane used the night to let off steam. Homer the retired engineer knew that he didn't get enough human contact, so this was it. And Gyro, he read and talked about his latest electronic gadgets, not that anyone listened.    

"Oh mother of mercy, you guys are killing me" Kane moaned, both hands held the sides of his head, he sunk deep into his couch. It wasn't just any game, it was the New England Patriots, and they were letting their number one fan down. Then he was on his feet. "Baby you did it! Run! Run that sucker!" His face was in the TV again, Call was again shouting about his over large ass, and Gyro read on. The detective's arms shot into the air, "Touchdown! They did it! Touchdown!" He was jumping up and down. The floors and walls reverberating. "Did you see it? Did you see that fumble recovery?" He was panting. The engineer shook his head in the negative.

“Naw, I didn’t see a thing.” Call complained. He was beginning to wonder if the human contact thing was all that important. Kane looked at him as if he were a zombie.

"How'em I supposed to see the game. You’re always blocking the screen?" Call sulked and looked at Gyro deep into the SF 3556 X 2 handbook, no support there.

Kane frowned, "Damn! Now what?" He ripped the vibrating cell phone from his pant pocket. "Yeah!" He snapped. "Naw!" He whined. "Not now." It was dispatch. "No way! It's the Patriots. You can't expect me to go out during the Pats game." There was another pause. "Damn, I'll be there." He returned the phone to his pocket, looked at Call, shrugged, "Gotta go, I’ve been mobilized." He looked at the screen, the score was tied. He sighed, "Lockup when it's over, it's going to be a couple hours for me. Damn!" A last glance at the game and he was gone.

***

Janean rode her bike, Bucephalus V, beneath a canopy of maple and elm trees. The wind pushed her hair back, she smiled. This was the first day in several months that the weather and her schedule allowed her to mount her stead and venture out into the wilds of Somerset's neighborhoods. She had a Rosy glow from the brisk morning air. She swished around the corners, she suppressed the desire to shout out a gleeful Wahoo.

She came to a stop, looked at the steep incline below lined with clapboard houses on either side.  She was on High Street, anticipating slipping the bonds of earth, at least for the next eight, unimpeded blocks. Dead Man’s Drop, Grunge and the guys called it. The hill named for a man who foolishly drove his car down without a good set of brakes. It was the steepest road in town. Janean had coasted the hill before, it would be worth the long wait since her last encounter. "What's that down there." . Two people were running, zig-zagging across the street below. She had no intention of allowing them to intrude upon her fun. Five days a week she had to play the role of the respected city library director. At this moment she was the daredevil bike rider anticipating a jolt of adrenaline, soaring down hill at breakneck speed. She gave the pedals a few quick pumps then allowed gravity free rein. The cool wind brushed at her face, her eyes teared. "Who are they? They better steer clear of my path." She spoke to herself as the men continued their misdirected flight crisscrossing her race course. She drew closer. "You better get out of my way! I'm not stopping!" She shouted. The daredevil kept to the middle of the street. The runners were a block away. The man or boy being pursued was extending his lead. The pursuers features came into focus, Detective Dan Kane. His face was scarlet, his feet leaden and she could hear his chest heave like a bellows.

Janean shouted, "watch out, watch out, you're in my way." The kid veered off to the side of the road. Good! Then he came back. No! No! And there he stood in the middle of High Street, slack jaw, staring at the oncoming bike and the wide eyed librarian. Braking to a stop was not an option for Janean. Just feet away from the fugitive she cranked the handle bars to the left, away from the suspected young felon. The rear tire fishtailed, throwing Janean into a skidding slide, right into the legs of Kane's prey. She went downhill the young fellow went into the air, flipping onto his back with a thud, his lungs ejecting a burst of air.

She lay in the street, The latticed pattern of elm branches above. She ached, and she knew that she was mortally wounded, or maybe just skinned up. This was not how she had planned for the day to unfold. She thought of Kane, whenever he was on scene things just didn’t go as expected.

Kane stumbled up to the two bodies laying in the roadway. Leaning over Janean, hands on his knees he stammered, "Wha? Wha...you...doing here?" He attempted to speak as he fought for air. Janean looked like an abused rag doll, arms and legs splayed, layers of skin abraded from the side of her leg and arm. Her fractured bicycle lay mortally wound at her side.

Janean's head was turned facing the bike. “You did it again, you killed Bucephalus.” Her accusing eyes turned upon the detective. “How could you?”

Kane shrugged. “I will remind you this street is not your drag strip. I told you before, you are going to kill yourself doing this.” He turned to look at the paramedics working on the other body in the street. Hopefully you didn’t kill him. That would take some explaining from the both of us.” Kane nodded toward the kid. “He’s the game store bandit I’ve been tracking down.” She didn’t respond, she had turned back to look at the mangled remains of her vehicle of freedom. She shook her head, a tear formed in the corner of her eye.

Kane took out his note pad and began recounting the chain of events for the formal report he would input back at the office. “Oh! Yeah, before I forget, nice work for a librarian."

“What do you mean "librarian", it was damn good for any citizen assisting an officer, one in dire need." She winced at the pain from her wounds.

"Nothing worse than road rash, stings like hell, don't it." Kane's attempt at levity was ill advised at the moment. "You did a good job on your friend there. Knocked him out cold. Luckily for you, it looks like he is going to live.” Kane chuckled. “Guy dies, that would look bad on your resume."

“Why am I not bowled over with your humor.” She attempted to push herself up with her good arm. “Get the medics over here, we are starting to draw a crowd. I don’t want that sorry excuse for a reporter, Ethan Taylor, snapping pictures of me here in the street.”

“Yeah, a little scrape and you come undone. I’ll have you know I’m missing a Patriots game.” He looked to her for some recognition of his sacrifice, there was none. He turned to the paramedics who were finishing up with the local thief. “Over here guys, we have a prima donna in desperate need of attention.” Janean mumbled several expletives and fell back onto the not too comfortable asphalt pavement.

As Janean was hauled away in the ambulance along with the awakening miscreant, Kane looked at his phone. “Gawd almighty, how can you do this to me.” The few spectators that hadn’t gone home gawked at their local enforcer of the law. Arms thrashing in the air he screamed, “Damn! Damn! The biggest comeback in MLB history and I miss it!” Head drooping he scuffed down the hill in search of his abandoned vehicle.

***

Janean arm and leg wrapped in bandaging limped to her reference desk. She eased down and into her chair, “ahh,” she yelped. Heads turned, and children giggled at the mummy-like wrappings on the librarians extremities. Little Tommy Corbet jumped to his feet, ran to her asking questions and running his fingers along the funny feeling material. The big front door was pushed open by the equally large Detective Dan Kane. He thumped his way to her desk, “I’m here, what is it?” Janean could see that the bear of a cop was out of sorts.

“Tommy, the Detective and I need to talk.” She coaxed the young fellow back to his mother and sister. She smiled up at Kane. “It is such a pleasure to have you cheer the library in the early morn’.”

He folded his arms, and gave Janean his death-ray look. “Cut the…stuff. What is it that was so important.”

“My new best friend Jerry. Jerry Nichols, the guy I almost killed. The one that almost gave you a heart attack.” She chuckled. “Once Jerry started coming out of his state of unconsciousness. Well, actually I think he is always in a state of unconsciousness, dumb things he does. Anyway, he started babbling, he wouldn’t shut up. It wasn’t up to me to read him his Miranda rights…”

Kane barked. “Is this going some place?” The cop looked at his watch. “I got a heavy schedule today. I do have a real job.” He looked around the library, giving it a disparaging survey.

For this I should keep what I have to myself. You are nothing but a… a doofus! However, she followed Grandma Clark’s advice and counted to ten. She nodded to a chair. “Pull that over here. Bring it close. And, this is important.” Kane pulled the chair close, sat and leaned into Janean.

“Let’s have it. And it better be good.” He said, and leaned his face close to the librarian’s.

“It is.” She whispered. “My new BFF Jerry said, BFF that’s best friends forever.” He glowered at her and took an antacid from his pocket. “Jerry Nichols with great pride recited his various break-ins and shoplifting episodes. He has this thing about paying for merchandise. He is philosophically opposed to it.”

“Come on Clark I don’t have all day, get with the story.” He whined. Little Tommy heard the tone of voice, pulled at his mother skirt and commented. Mrs Corbet frowned at Kane.

“Patience.” She was whispering again. “He broke into a house, one of many, but this one he described in great detail. He found a box filled with money hidden in a closet. Twenty dollar bills. He looked it over but left it. He didn’t think it was real and would have been too heavy to carry. He did take a box filled with jewelry.”

Kane leaned back, and rubbed his chin stubble. “Do we know who’s house it was?”

Janean was having trouble not giggling, “Bennett’s. It had to have been Bennett’s. Has anyone in that neighborhood reported stolen jewelry. No! She doesn’t want to have the police snooping around.”

“Nichol’s didn’t mention any of this to me. Little wonder, I Mirandized the kid.” He continued his scruffing at the chin. “Hmm. He’ll talk if I give him a deal. Lessen the charges, he gives me enough, I can get a warrant for Bennett’s house.” His eyes went blank, he stood and began leaving. “Oh, Clark. Thanks.” It was a mumble. Just like a man, do all the work and they show little or no gratitude.

WHAT DOES THE KID HAVE IN HIS POCKETS, HARVARD RING, SOMETHING CONNECTING BENNETT TO BREAKIN, THEFT OF CHAMBERS’ PROPERTY

CHAPTER 24

TAKING BENNETT DOWN, DOTS CONNECTED—JANEAN IN CHARGE, NOT A PIC-NIC (CONFLICTS)

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CHAPTER 25

LETTER TO GILCREST

Need to have some scenes with Bennett we need to get a sense of who she is.

“Just put it there!” Gilcrest gave the postman a testy scowl and pointed to the counter, where the mail was placed and the messenger made a fast retreat. The bookstore owner, or antiquarian as he preferred, had a reputation with service providers, get in and out with as few words as possible. He turned to his customer, “And where were we Mrs. Blackwell.” He gave her a gracious smile. She was browsing the pages of a leather bound tome.

“Yes, this will be perfect, Mr. Blackwell has been searching for this title, I don't know how many years.” She laid the volume on the counter.

“Will you want to select a special gift wrapping. I have just received some particularly nice paper.”

“No, no fuss needed, Mr. Blackwell might damage the book in his eagerness to remove the wrapping. Just your white tissue will be fine.” Mrs. Blackwell responded. “And of course one of your nice bags.”

Gilcrest deftly wrapped the item in tissue and slipped it into a craft bag with a distinctive Gilcrest Fine Books logo. Handing the book to his customer he commented, “And I do hope that Mr. Blackwell will be pleased with your purchase.”

“I'm sure he will.” She said as she turned to leave.

Gilcrest looked down on his stack of mail as the bell on the door announced the departure of Mrs. Blackwell. He sorted out into separate stacks: Bills, book orders, advertising to be discarded and personal mail. Personal mail, one piece, attracted his attention, the shop address was printed in an almost mechanical style, and there was no return address. “No one I am acquainted with would be so very gauche. No return address.” He tossed the letter into the trash along with the infernal advertising. Then the bills and mail orders for books were opened. Always a pleasure dealing with customers through the mail that did not require him to feign graciousness.

The shop owner went about the daily routine, searching rare book databases, local estate sales and the obituaries, anticipating future appraisals and sales. The letter, the one lacking the return address gnawed at him. How could anyone be so rude? And why was it printed as if by machine. He began thinking it was a new form of advertising, a psychological ploy enticing one to open and be subjected to their prattle. Throughout the day his mind wandered back to that envelope. "This is silly," He went to the trash container fished out the offending object, ripped it open to read: I KNOW ABOUT THE BOOKS. I KNOW YOUR ARRANGEMENTS WITH MISS CHAMBERS. I HAVE HER RECORDS. I WILL CONTACT YOU AGAIN WITH MY DEMAND FOR MONEY. YES, THIS IS BLACKMAIL! Gilcrest fell into his office chair, heart banging in his chest. He had feared just such a demand. However, with the passing of each hour and day he had become hopeful that it would not happen. Who is it? How do I get to him or her? How do I put a stop to them? He yanked the desk drawer open, he needed to see the gun, feel it, heft it, his protection from just such a thief.

***

***

***

CHAPTER 26

Gilcrest jumped. The old truck out on the street backfired, rattling windows and the shopkeeper’s  nerves. It had been a bad day. No sales. Several of his mail order clients had complained about the condition of their purchases. “You buy an old book, it won’t look new.” He grumbled.

Only intermittently did his thoughts stray from the letter of yesterday. Blackmail. Each customer. Each face passing by the window was studied. Would they dare to frequent my shop. Would they skulk at the sidewalk. Anyone that would write such a vile letter would show no temerity.

Gilcrest turned the open sign to closed. It was early. He had no energy. He had been going though the motions of work, shuffling paper, dusting books. He looked around at what he had collected, the business he had built. Two days ago it had seemed so solid, immutable. Now all was fragile. This could be taken away by a nameless soul.

He turned off the shop lights. Standing at his desk he watched the foot traffic along the street, no one seemed to know that Gilcrest Fine Books existed. Heads down, the pedestrians seemed to be more concerned with their footing than a good book to read.

He took his overcoat from the coat rack, easing it on, he stopped. Through the window a face stared into the darkened book shop. The watcher’s hand came up, cigarette between his fingers, he inhaled and then blew a fog of smoke at the window. “Such a crude sort could be my blackmailer.”

Gilcrest could not move. He analyzed the features, did he know the man? Did he live in Somerset? One last drag was taken, smoke spewed from his mouth and with flick of his fingers the smoker catapulted the flaring butt though the air.

“Yes. That’s just the sort of contemptible being that would stoop to blackmail.” Gilcrest hissed. Never a smoker, he held those that did in low esteem.

CHAPTER 27

DRUG DEAL GONE BAD—LOVE IN THE HAY

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Darlene and Grunge were walking along a trail between farmland and the woods. “I’ve never been out here before,” Grunge said. Nice being in the trees like this.”

My family would go on walks out here. We would bring lunches along in our backpacks, stop and eat. It was always such fun.”

The trail twisted down to a dirt road, they stopped, Darlene looked either way. Grunge laughed, “There is no traffic, you don’t have to be looking both ways.” She gave him a shove.

“I know there is no traffic, I was thinking about what is out here. This way,” she made an arcing wave of direction.

What college do you think you will go to?” Grunge asked

Waterbury, they have a good writing program. Being around Janean, Miss Clark, she has inspired me to write again.” She looked to Grunge. “I used to write a lot when I was younger, she is encouraging to take it up again. She’s nice.” She picked up a stick, dragging it along behind. “What are your plans Eric?”

“Don’t call me Eric!” He squinted a frown. “Work, maybe the community college, I could be a cop like Detective Kane.” They both laughed at the suggestion. “I’m not cop material.”

“I got it; you could be an English major, come back to the high school and work in Mr. McLaughlin’s department.” Then they really laughed.

You should think about English. You are the best in the class, no one is more insightful than you. Hey, how about we become a writing team.” She gave him a sideways smile. “I can see it now, ‘Somerset Tales of Romance’, by Darlene and Grunge.” He cringed at the thought of writing romance.

“No way. Hmm. ‘Somerset Tales of Terror,’ by Grunge and Darlene.”

“Come on.” Darlene shouted, as she began running ahead. “The old barn is still here.”

Standing alone in a grove of red oaks was the weathered barn. There were few signs of recent activity. Eddies of dust shown in the shafts of light coming through the gaps in the roofing. They stood in the doorway, taking in the bits and pieces of abandoned tools and bales of hay. Darlene tugged at his sleeve and gave him a head nod. “Come on, let’s see what trouble we can get into.”

“I can’t afford any more trouble. Officer Dan and McLaughlin want to put me away for life.”

“It’ll be okay, I’ll say I forced you to do it. No matter what crime it might be.” She gave him a knowing smile and dragged him inside.

The barn floor was littered with broken saw blades, discarded hammers and other unwanted tools. Darlene looked up to the hay loft, “Come on we have to see everything.” There were wooden ladder steps leading the way. Grunge shook his head, looked to the door.

“I feel uncomfortable being in here.”

She was half way up, reached down and yanked a lock of his hair. “Ouch, I’m coming.” He started up the steps.

Darlene was tunneling into loose hay, giggling like a kid. “Come on you have to find me.” Grunge, arms crossed stood watching her well formed unhidden back side. He felt his body responding in ways that he couldn’t handle. He didn’t respond to her request to follow. He didn’t like where this was going. “Come on!” She knelt and turned to him, observing his problem. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I think we need to go.” He turned toward the ladder; they both started at a backfire from a vehicle nearby.

Grunge crouched down, focusing on the open doorway. A sputtering and popping yellow van backed into view, the engine coming to a rumbling and popping stop. He flattened out on the floor, moved to the edge keeping his head low. Darlene edged up next to him. He gave her a ‘now see what you have done’ look. Van doors opened and closed, voices could be heard below.

“I  have to tune it up again. Just not running as smooth as she should.”  A deep female voice stated. A thin, long haired fellow stepped into view, opened the engine compartment, and began tinkering with wires. The woman, a mountain of woman squeezed behind him, “What are you doing.” She breathed fire down on him. “You don’t know the difference between a spark plug and a solenoid. Close it up. I’ll take care of it back at the farm.”

“Popper, you get the van open, we need to get this shit unloaded. Hands on her hips she looked up to the loft. Grunge and Darlene slid back. “We could store it up there. She gave it some thought. “Someone wanders in they could find it down here, not so likely up there.”

Grunge looked at Darlene and around the loft, not many places for them to hide. Thinking of his girl friends earlier attempt at hiding, no he didn’t want to think to much about that. Sweat was beginning to form on their dust covered faces causing streaks of mud..

Popper looked at the steps leading to the loft. “Natasha, be lotta work haulin’ the dope up there, lotta work. Won’t be here long.” He suggested, shoulders slumping.

Natasha gave him a disgusted look and shrugged, he just wanted to get out of extra work, but she had to agree. “Won’t be that long, over there in the corner, we have that beaten up tarp, no one ever comes out here, guess, she kicked at the tools on the floor.

Grunge thought about how great it had been, walking with Darlene, she identified all the flowers and trees. Even some of the bird songs. Now they laid here in the dust, with clothes soaked with perspiration. And people down there, who appeared to be drug dealers, setting up for a sale. They looked to be inept; do inept dealers murder innocent bystanders? I’m not sure I want to find out.  He had his head down facing her. She was beautiful even with rivulets of mud coursing down her face.

Darlene gave Grunge a guilty, ‘please forgive me look.’ She attempted to smile, but there wasn’t much to smile about. She shouldn’t have insisted, he didn’t want to come in, and he didn’t want to come up to the loft. She had never felt a boy, a young man close. A few months and life will change. She just wanted to feel loved, be held close, to be…yeah she wanted it all. She wanted Grunge. He ran his finger down her nose. She thought that maybe they would be lucky, they could meet at holidays, Summers. They smiled.

Popper and Natasha stacked the last of their bundles, threw the soiled canvas over the top, and tucked it under their cache. She used her boot to cover their tracks as best she could, looked around satisfied, then motioned for Popper to join her in the van.

Grunge lifted his head as the ignition ground the vehicle to a herking and jerking start, it then jostled its way down the track. Up on his elbows he moved next to Darlene. He rubbed his nose along the bridge of her nose, she parted her moist lips, welcoming him.

***

Darlene noted how low the sun was in the sky, “It’s late, and look at us. We look like a couple pigs that have been rolling in the mud.”

“What do we do about the dope, tell officer Dan? He might accuse me of being involved.”

“I could talk to my mom, or Miss Clark. Miss Clark is good friends with Detective Kane.”

“You’re right, Miss Clark, would know what to say. We need to get off this road, they can’t find us here.”

Darlene grabbed a handful of Grunge’s shirt “Down here, quick!” She led the way down a trail through the tall grass.

Grunge stumbled behind. “You need to stop this, yanking and pulling stuff.” He protested.

“I saw dust on the road higher up, they may be coming back. The creek is down here we can get cleaned up, and the trail on the other side, it will take us in to town.”

THIS HAS TO BE INTEGRATED INTO THE CHAPTER

***

Popper didn’t have one of the quickest minds. He knew if Natasha says turn, he best turn. However, the road was wet, composed of clay, and he should have been slowing down back a mile. A quick glance to the wife told him his life depended on turning now. And he did. Shifting his brain into slow motion, not hard for him to achieve, the driver felt the rear tires slip. It was the sensation one feels stepping onto a sheet of ice. There was no grip, no traction, just the inexorable, uncontrolled drift into the unknown. Well, actually Popper could see exactly where they were headed. The ditch. Not a deep ditch; no one was going to be maimed. But a ditch that was going to take some time to pull out of. And then the driver would endure an hour or more of verbal assaults from the wife. The driver held the wheel tight, Natasha hung to the safety grip on the dash. The tires glided, then ground into sharp edged rock at the shoulder, and thumped down into the swamp of a culvert.

As the van sank and bottomed out, Popper turned to Natasha and smiled, “No one got hurt.” Followed by a smile and a shrug.

“I should beat on your head, but you are senseless enough already.” She pushed open her door and jumped to the ground. Tilted as the van was, the passenger side was four feet off the ground. Popper needed his wife’?s help clambering to the ground without breaking any bones. They surveyed the extent of damages, and their ability to extract the vehicle from the mire. Popper knew better than to make suggestion at this time. His wife crossed her arms and then stroked at her chin with one hand. This was her thinking pose. Shh! Ahh right.” She looked down the road, where there was no end of sturdy birch trees.  “We can winch it out.” She motioned with a nod, as she began pulling cable from the winch on the front bumper. “Tie off on that big one over there.”

***

Natasha glared at Popper, “You stay here, don’t do or touch a thing…caused enough trouble already.” She groused, opening the van door, and then moving down the short distance to a derelict barn. She pushed aside the large wooden door, with effort; it bumped and jolted along the debris filled track. Inside, water dripped to puddles on the dirt floor. Discarded tools, a torn canvas tarp were all that was seen on the floor. Above in the loft were bales of hay.

As she left she pulled the door closed and walked around the structure

“It will do. Nobody been round here for years, not even kids; no beer bottles, back of the barn is overgrown with blackberries…too far from town.”?

Popper nodded his head, not wanting to stir the waters that were calming. He started the van and pulled out onto the dirt drive. “It was clean enough, no people around to cause a problem. I’ll use Ian’s phone to set it up.” Natasha, voiced the plan running through her head. Popper nodded, continuing his efforts to sooth the beast in his wife’s head.

CONVERSATION WITH DRUG DEALERS

“I don't like this Popper, they seem just too anxious,” Natasha fidgeted with the rabbits foot on her key chain. Popper's eyes shifted from the dirt road to the truck following in his dust. He responded with a few well placed grunts and groans. “Maybe they are new at this, most times they play games, act like they don't really need to make the deal.” She glanced back at the truck.

Popper thumped the steering wheel. “Everyone knows we only sell the good, organically grown weed, he chewed on his lip, “at a good price.”

Natasha inhaled, I'm just edgy, she thought, as she attempted to relax. Popper slowed as they approached the barn, the truck pulling up parallel. He glanced at his woman, he restrained himself from commenting on another night of mixing the pot with alcohol, and too much of both. He knew he was an idiot, but he also knew that mixing the two would come to a bad ending for Natasha.  He had mentioned it too many times before, she would just shut him down.

***

A Boston Red Sox cap leaned in to Popper. “So you got good stuff, that's what we are paying for.” His arms were folded across the open window, the cap bill got into Popper's space, forcing him back across the bench seat.

“You heard of us, you know who we are, we only sell the best, no need to ask.” Popper was offended by the interrogation. He and Natasha had heir standards, they never compromised. They smoked what they sold, they only smoked the best.

The baseball cap smiled a broken tooth smile, and slapped his back pocket where his money would reside. “Fine, 'cause I brought along good dollars for your product.” With a nod toward the barn he suggested, “lets do some selling then. Bridges, time to work some.” The Red Sox fan called to his partner in the truck. A tall, lanky fellow held back some, following the others into the barn. Popper never liked these deals with strangers, he wanted to get his money and get these guys on their way. He increased his pace as they approached the stash, throwing back the tarp exposing the stacked bundles.

The baseball cap whistled with satisfaction at the sale to be made. He calculated the profit to be made, a profit increased by the deep discount provided by the Popejoy's. Without taking his eyes off the dope the cap called out, “Bridges give our friend's their payment.” Natasha and Popper turned with anticipating smiles to face Bridges. On his shoulder he held an aluminum baseball bat. A bat that took a sudden, horizontal arc, catching Popper in the face. On the return flight he took a step forward catching the back of Natasha's head as she attempted to flee.

Killian, the one wearing the Red Sox cap took the bat and worked over the Popejoys, laughing with each stroke. Bridges grabbed his arm, “Otta go, got lots a dope to move.” Bridges stammered. Killian scared him when he got carried away like this. 

“Yeah.” Killian gave Bridges a blank look. “Yeah, the dope.” They spent a few moments assessing their savaging of the Popejoy's. “Drag them over there in the corner,” Killian nodded the direction. “Then we load the truck.”

“Should I see is they dead?” Bridges questioned.

“Don't matter, dead, alive, we are outta here.” Killian began filling his arms, sniffing the aroma and savoring the cash to be earned. One hundred percent profit, he chuckled on his way to the truck.

Darlene and Grunge were cresting a hill just above the river when they heard the truck speeding back from the barn. Instinctively they both ducked down into the bushes. “Why are they in such a hurry?” He asked.

“They are committing a crime. Make the deal and leave in a hurry.” Darlene suggested. “I don't like this, let's get out of here.”

“Just a minute,” Grunge asked. They sat and watched.

“What are we waiting for.” Darlene was nervous, she was uncomfortable

“let's see if the Popejoy's come along. You always here about the drug deal gone bad, this could be one of them.”

 “I don't know, this is all so dirty, drugs and criminals. I don't like it. Can't we just go.” Darlene pleaded.

Grunge stood and brushed his pants, but continued his survey of the dirt road. “What if they are lying there injured?” His eyes pleaded with Darlene, arms crossed unwilling to give.

Darlene slumped, she shook her head, “You are such a do-gooder.”

“But isn't that why you...like me.” They began their trek back to the river and on to the barn. Though they left the subject unspoken they both dreaded what they might find.

Grunge looked into the windows of the Popejoy's van, gesturing for Darlene to stay back. “Nothing,” he reported after circling the vehicle. His legs were beginning to feel rubbery, there were no sounds from the barn, this is not good.

Back at Darlene's side he whispered, “is your cell pone working out here?”

She pulled the phone from her back pocket, she indicated that she had enough bars. “Should work.”

“Go over in the woods there, if I don't come out, if there are any problems call 911. Okay?”

“No it is not okay.” She glared at Grunge, “but yeah, I'll do it master.” She ran for the woods and Grunge muscled-up his nerves and headed into the barn. His brain swirled with the images of violence and gore. A minute later he appeared. He grabbed the door and began to retch violently.

Darlene ran across the road to Grunge's side, she supported him as he swayed on his collapsing legs. Through gasps he demanded that she not go in the barn, “Call 911, I think they may still be alive, there is nothing we can do for them...911” He bent to the ground gagging.

Officer Dan on the scene

EMT  missing scene

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CHAPTER 28

KANE INTERROGATES POPEJOYS—KIDS DISAPEAR

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Officer Kane was talking Nurse Kramer in the doorway of the Popejoy room. Doctor Brewster had given him the rundown on fractures, concussions, contusions and hematomas. What didn't they have? "Is that Mr. Popejoy across the room there?" Kane nodded to the bed on the far side of the room, next to the window. He assumed, the larger body, by length and girth would be Popper. Nurse Kramer shook her head in the negative. She pointed to the closer bed, the one inhabited by a petite figure of a man. Kane grunted a "Hunh."

"You must promise you will not agitate the patients. They are in a fragile state. Any excitement could bring about a relapse in their improvement." The nurse admonished. Kane made the two finger word of honor sign, dismissing the nurse to more important duties.

Kane slipped in to the room, gave it a quick survey, and inhaled the many antiseptics used to maintain a constant state of readiness against all invading gerMiss He hatted the smells and he hated hospitals. As a child he had a phobia about needles and any other sharp objects used to inject, push or prod at his body. And he still had the same phobia.

"Mr. Popejoy, I'm Officer Kane with the Somerset Police Department." Kane words were slow and loud. Poppers head was wrapped in gauze several inches thick. His entire body, seemed to have received the same treatment. The doctor mentioned that there weren't many bones in the man's body that weren't broken. Popper made no response. His eyes didn't twitch, arms didn't move and toes didn't wiggle. However, the patient in the next bed beame animate. Kane looked over, "Mrs. Popejoy?" The bed rocked back and forth. Kane approached.

"Ung! Ung! Ung!" And the bed rocked more.

"Shh! Calm Mrs. Popejoy." Kane looked back to the open doorway, the nurse had requested that he only ask a few questions. And he should not allow the patients to become agitated. Her monitoring devices were going off the charts. Another look to the door, "Who was the person that beat you up Mrs. Popejoy. Crazy noises came from the monitor.

"Ung! Ung! Ung!" Mrs. Popejoy responded again. her head rocked from side to side. Doc did say her jaw was wired. "Ung! Ung! Ung!" Kane could see he was getting no where with the mute and the groaner.

"Officer Kane!" Nurse Kramer screamed through the door. "If you kill my patients, I'll charge you with murder and make you investigate yourself. Now get your sorry butt out of here." Her face was bright red and her teeth were bared like a pit bull. Kane knew when he was out matched, he retreated through the door and down the hallway.

Kane pulled his hat low on his forehead, rain dripped down on his nose. This was a waste of time. He stood in front of the Somerset General Hospital contemplating where his line of investigation would take him next.

***

CHILD PROTECTIVE SERVICES

Trudy banged on the side of Kane’s door frame, suppressing a smile, “She’s here.” Kane looked up from the file he was studying,a big owl like face.

“Who?” He asked.

Trudy suppressed a giggle, “CPS.”

“Why do you love to torment me. Send her back, and put a brown paper sack over her head.”

“If you insist.”

He put his head down hoping this visit with agent Jessup would go away. He stared at the Popejoy file, He would shove it at her, give her a county map and send her off to the farthest corner. The lady had a way of nattering and fussing that drove him crazy. The tapping at side of the door was light, Kane’s sour face came up…he was speechless. He gave the CPS agent his best stupid smile, his jaw dropped, he sputtered, “Dan Kane,” he then stumbled to his feet, hand extended he walking around his desk. This was not Agent Jessup, this was the vision of an angel, with a body. Colleen Francis, blond hair, blue eyes, just a bit shorter than Kane, and a marvel of curves. She smiled meeting Kane’s hand with a firm shake, and handed him a paper sack.

“Trudy, your clerk said you needed this.” Colleen said. He was speechless again, he tossed the unwanted item to his desk.

“Misunderstanding, please have a seat.” He pointed to his guest chair stacked with more files. “I’ll take care of those.” He picked them up dropping them to the floor, where they teetered then toppled to the floor.

“Have I arrived at a bad time.” Colleen Francis asked.”

“No, perfect, couldn’t be better.” Even he knew that he was simpering like a school boy, drooling over the beautiful new teacher.

Sitting she arranged her short skirt that highlighted her well formed legs. Kane sat behind his desk, giving him space, he felt as though he was going to melt from her body heat. She waited for the detective to begin the conversation. He didn’t. “The Popejoy children?” She took a notebook from her bag, “Banger and Portland.” She said. She was new to Maine.

“Ban gore. The boy is named for the city. Many people mispronounce the word like Banger. Just think of Stephen King, he lives there, and he…”

“Please, I understand. I’ve heard, I’m new and trying to learn local place names, it was just a lapse.” She shifted her weight. Her smile had disappeared. “The children, I believe you have a file for me.”

Kane lifted the folder, it felt as thou it weighed a hundred pounds. How could I be so stupid. I’m going to hand this to her and never see her again, she will refuse to come to Somerset, or ask for an armed escort. Don’t you know how to shut yuour mouth Kane. Idiot! He wanted to shout, but agent Colleen Francis felt he was certifiable already.

She accepted the file, glanced through the few sheets of information, then looked at Kane. He was melting again, those blue eyes, the soft mouth. Her lips moved, “Being new to the area I might need some help finding my way around. It seems most of the sites the children might stay are out in the country. Do you have an officer you could spare.”

Kane pulled at his chin, “Hmm.” Kane needed to give this serious consideration. “I’m the only officer available at this time. I’m a Somerset native, know all the locals and outlying homesteads.

Coleen Francis

The new Child Protective Services agent is quite the looker, good attitude and is tough on Kane

***

COLEEN AND KANE INNVESTIGATE POPEJOY KIDS AT DOLE’S FARM

***

EVERYONE’S TALKING, DARLENE IN A PANIC

Darlene leaned across the table toward Grunge. She whispered, "Everyone is asking questions, first Miss Chambers' death, now these beatings. They are laughing, asking how is it that we are always on the scene. I'm concerned. Will Officer Kane begin to suspect us." She held her hands over her face. “Will he think we did it.” A shiver came over her.

"We're not guilty. We know that." He rubbed his hand along her arm.

"You know how Kane is. Everybody is a suspect, we don't get off his list until someone confesses. I've got college to think about. You as well. We can't sit waiting for Kane's glacially slow processes. And if my college should hear that I'm a suspect...it can't be good."

She sat up straight, scanned the room, and slumped forward again. "There doing it, staring, that snickering, I'm doomed, we are both doomed."

Grunge could see over Darlene's shoulder, a group of jocks were in on the act, he rubbed his hand over his forehead, the bell rang ending the period. "Never more glad to end the lunch break. We could meet at the gazebo after last period." Darlene didn't respond she was shoving books into her pack.

"Is it a good idea to be seen together?" She blurted. Grunge was jolted back. She stood and walked to the exit. He shrugged, it's about your college, your future. People have died, people have been maimed and you’re concerned about...

CHAPTER 29

GRATUITOUS KILLING

Killian and Bridges were huddled around their campfire, blankets covering thier freezing backsides. "What's the use of having money if we can't go to ta' town and spend none of it." Bridges complained. Killian didn't answer he had no use for the other mans concernes. He was the honcho of this gang, even if it was just the two of them. He was calling the shots. He would let Bridges whine on, aint no bother to me.

Killian peered out of his sleeping bag, he brushed away the frost on his beard and sniffed the air. "Gawd damn you Bridges! Yah aint fixed no coffee." It was Bridges assignment to fix coffee first thing, every morning. "Bridges!" He growled. He was one mean man, but without his coffee, there was no man meaner. He wrestled his way out of his sleeping bag, shivered, and peed off to the side of the dead fire. "You aint made no fire, aint no coffee. To hell and damnation, where is that polecat?" He shouted into the frozen silence. He ran to the car, pulled the keys from his pocket and opened the rear door. "No, this aint good. Somethin's not right." He began pulling at plastic bags, boxes, tossing clothing, papers and packets of marijuana and other drugs to the ground. "You got my money. No one touches my money and lives to tell." He turned and leaned on the car door, his eyes scanned the open area at the forest margin, they stopped at the fresh tracks through the wilted grass. His mouth twisted and he turned to the car again, retrieving his baseball bat, One hand held the handle slapping it into the palm of the other. Testing balance and weight. He sneared.

Rain poured off his cap and down his mackinaw, his booted feet plunged into the thick mulch of leaves, His hands groping at saplings, pulling himself forward. He could hear killian behind, he knew the game. He was the prey, killian would take his time, following at a distance, when the prey weakened he would come in for the kill. The muscles of his legs were burning, His eyes looked skyward, a hunters blind in the high branches, something, but no, no refuge, nothing. This far into the woods there would be few or no farmsteads. He was alone, and Killian knew what he was doing. Why had he been greedy, give the bastard all the loot, all the dope. No, I gotta be stupid. Should'a known better. Killian was mean, killer mean. Bridges didn't see the root, but then it was covered by the mulch, It cought his foot, throwing him to the ground, he struck his head on a boulder. It was a merciful accident. He would not feel the maiming, that his assailant would inflict upon him, Nor, would he hear the taunts of joy shouted by his executioner.

CHAPTER 30

GIRLS NIGHT OUT, SLEUTHING

Arms crossed, Mary Smart in a firm motherly pose was laying down the law. “Just listen. That’s all. This is a gathering of adults, I don't know why or how you talked me into this.” They stood outside Johnny's a local restaurant known more for it's cocktails, than it's culinary expertise. “Miss Clark is gathering information to help with her defense. It will be important that she has few interruptions.” Darlene was unhappy that she had to fight over this. She felt as if she acted as an adult. Why all of a sudden was her mother treating her as if she were a child.

“Yes mother, I will sit, no questions, just listen. Okay?”

“Thank you!” Mary was beginning to feel guilty, her daughter was always responsible. She had gone through Officer Dan's interrogation and all the social pressures over the past weeks, she was a good kid, I have done a good job with her. They walked in to Johnny's, the restaurant had the look of the steak house, dark paneled walls, leatherette banquets, and subdued lighting

“Why does someone kill,” Peggy started the conversation, Mary and Janean grabed their pens (smrt phone) and began taking notes.'lOVE, SEX AND MONEY, POWER, PRESERVING A REPUTATION, covering a crime.

 “Or the serial killer, who has a psychological disturbance. Why Miss Chambers. No one would think was in the midst of a hot relationship. Money, she certainly possessed money. But killing her in no way seems to have enriched a perpetrator. Well, unless it was someone with the dog shelter. Millions of dollars going to an institution she had no connection with. And her lawyer insists the shelter had no idea that they were to inherit.”

“You wouldn't think that she would have left it to the library. That was her life’s work. The human mind, one contradiction after another.”

Janean shook her head. “Contrary, obstinate, uncaring, and those are nice words to describe the late director.”

“Amen.” Mary inserted.

Lets make a list, those who seemed to be connected, had an interest in the director, dead or alive. Janean tapped on her phone, Peggy and Mary writing. Darlene whispered to Mary. Mary gave the question some thought and then nodded yes. Her daughter took a not pad and pencil from her purse and likewise jotted away.   some added description here(?)  music, people moving in the background, waiter asking for added drinks. Minor in lounge like facility.

Peggy finished first, not being closely involved with the library she didn't know all the actors involved. Janean finished next and Mary completed with a sigh and a “Hmm.” Darlene continued for several minutes longer. She drew the stares of surprise, she also felt the pressure to wrap up.

“Okay. We will compare lists. See who comes up most often. Though I have to say that doesn't prove or disprove guilt.” Peggy instructed

They laughed at some of the names: Miss Morrissey, for comedic effect only. Mr. Gilcrest, one of the most disliked people in town and on the library board. Mr. Husk the janitor, just because he creeps everyone out. There were some surprises, Ian Dole, Miss Bennett, and Ethan Taylor. Janean confessed she was angry about his treatment of her in his reporting.

“Lets be serious now.” Peggy requested. “We need to look at means, motive and opportunity. Example: did a basset hound escape from the pound, unwatched, strangle the director, because he wanted better digs at the shelter.” Everyone laughed. But Peggy made her point. Their waiter rushed over to say there had been some complaints about their raised voices and laughter. The ladies promised to be quieter and ordered another round of drinks. Darlene scowled at another order non alcohol order for her.

Sipping on their cocktails and a hot chocolate they went through the list. Opportunity was the major stumbling point. With the open window in the basement, anyone could have entered or left. But to get at the garrote the person had gone to Janean's desk, and also known that it was there. The person was familiar with the library and knew what to expect.

Ethan Taylor was dismissed, he wasn't a serious contender and had not connection to Miss Chambers. He had no way to benefit from her death. Peggy suggested a jilted lover, they laughed again and looked to the other side of the room. It seemed that they were now being ignored.

Ethan Taylor interviews Janean about the slumber party, gets all the details.

Gilcrest is short--Ethan Taylor is short--getting through the window.

***

SMUGGLER—APREHENDING KILLER (HOW DOES KANE CONNECT THUG TO POPJOY AND KILLING)

NEED FOR CAPTAIN JACQUES TO HAVE A FRENCH ACCENT

Tack this to the end of the hospital interrogation scene

After the Hospital, dealing with Popper Popejoy and the Missus, Kane wanted to get back on track. Do some sleuthing that might produce something beyond gibberish. He had a hunch that he wanted to followup on. He pointed his cruiser down to the harbor. One man just might solve two cases at once.

Kane pounded on the deck of the boat. He knew a cop boarding a boat uninvited could cause more agitation than necessary, not to mention the possibility of a fatal injury. “Captain Jacques!” Kane shouted. Grousing sounds came from below. The boat was a traditional fishing smack, its shallow draft allowed for maneuvering inshore. Having a good sized hold there was room for a good catch or storage for taxable contraband. Under sail she would run quietly offering stealth when needed. The weathered face peered up from the cabin.

“Ai, Kane is it not. What does the law need with an old fisherman?” Jacques squinted at the detective.

“May I come aboard?”

Jacques glanced back to the cabin, “No, I’ll come down to you.” He wheezed as he hoisted his stiff body over the rail and down to the dock. “What is it you need with me officer Kane.” His watery blue eyes looked up at the tall cop.

“Down here on the Midcoast we have our way of doin’ things.” The Captain pushed back his cap, exposing a band of pale, untanned skin. Yeah, Kane thought, like smuggling. Maine had a long history, including it was said the reviled Blackbeard, piracy and the illegal movement of contraband across international and state lines. Kane observed the Captains twisted arthritic joints and the calloused hands. He kept his own hands in his pockets.

“You’re Canadian?” Kane knew he was. He had gone over his long record, in and out of Maine jails, as well as facilities up north in Canada. The RCMP freely shared their information on such bad guys.

“I’m a Canuck, from the Maritimes, but you know that.” He gave an awkward smile exposing tobacco stains and missing teeth. I move back and forth. Some days I’m Canadian. Some days I’m a Mainer. Don’t matter to me. It’s about where the fish are running.”

Kane nodded and added, “Or where a profit is to be made.”

“I’m a business man. Gotta go where the money is to be made.”

“I’ve been talking to Customs. They showed a lot of interest when I mentioned your name.”

“Those boys got nothing better to do than pester an old man.” The Captain kicked at his fishing net on the deck. ”I got work to do Kane. Don’t mind the company, but I got net to mend and a boat to put in sailing order.” He slowly bent to pull at the net.

“Back aching?” Kane asked. The man had arthritis head to toe. Tough work out in the cold and damp, just made the pain worse. The Detective could see that. The Canuck didn’t respond. Kane said, “Best I know there won’t be anything to catch for months. Where are you taking your boat?”

“Like I said Kane I don’t got time to talk. I done something wrong, you come talk to me.” He dropped the net. “I’m going below. You won’t be here when I come back.”

“I’ll be back and you better talk if you want to stay alive.” Kane was no Boy Scout, saving the Captain was about solving a bigger case.

The Captain worked his way into the boats cabin where he disappeared.

“You better believe I’ll be back.” He spoke to himself. He spent a lot of time trying to understand the criminal mind. Why did they always go for the quick buck. Rather than work on legal side like most working stiffs. Thinking back to Blackbeard there have always been the quick buck, slit the throat specialists. And then there were the small time thieves, like the Captain, the ones who find themselves in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Heads below water, they get hurt. “I tried.” He stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets, and turned down the dock watching his step as he wove between piles of netting, a broken mast and no end of damaged crab traps.

“Kane!” The Detective heard his name called out. He turned to see the Captain waving to him. “Now what. No way he has had a change of heart.” He began retracing his steps to the Captains boat. 

Boots grinding on grit was the only sound to be heard, other than the occasional hoot of a loon or a seal slapping at the waters surface. The night intruder was stooped, staying in the cover of overhanging porches and the stretch of buildings hugging the harbor front. He slowed his pace, looked over his shoulder, and down to the dock. He was alone. He stepped lightly on the wooden decking, there was no need to rush now. He could see the boat, it had not been moved, oars laid across the center thwart. With care he stepped aboard using the lines for balance. He sat, breathed and relaxed. His goal was half way to completion. He untied the lines, pushed off and fixed the oars in the rowlocks. The oar blades were dipped into the water and given a firm pull, raised, pushed foreword and dipped again. Quiet. His mission required absolute quiet. He was a jack-of-all trades, experienced with timber cutting, fishing, lobstering. A Downeaster needed to know a little bit of everything to survive. His rough calloused hands pulled hard on the oars, every muscle from the flat of his feet to those in his neck were involved. He had cleared the boat basin and could see the lighthouse at the end of the jetty. It wouldn't be long now. He was straining at the oars, fighting the currents between the breakwater and jetty. He hated this.

From the side of his eye he saw the flash of light. He chuckled, how could anyone be so foolish as to trust me. Dumb Canuck! Anticipating a major score he pulled all the harder at the oars, running the dollars through his head. The sails on the fishing smack were furled, Jacques was using his outboard to keep his boat in place. Killian raised his arm, waving a friendly hello  to his French Canadian customer. The rowboat pulled along side the smack. Fish, I hate the smell of fish. The odor was reminiscent of work, and he avoided work as best he could. Between the drug and cigarette trade he found little need to break a sweat any longer. He tossed a line up to the fisherman, the rowboat was tied off and Killian scrambled aboard.

"A good evening for business." Killian smiled. On the deck he saw the stacked crates of cigarettes, he estimated five, maybe eight thousand dollars.

Jacques looked down at Wallace's boat. "Monsieur, I have far too much supply for your small boat." He shrugged, palms up.

Killian flashed a broad smile, and a stiletto, "Jacques, I won't be needing a larger boat. This one will do me just fine." He grabbed the Canadian by the collar, the knife blade playing at his throat. Jacques began to sputter in French.

Behind, from the cabin came movement and a booming voice, "That will be enough Killian. You are under arrest." Officer Kane grabbed the knife wielding arm, disarming him and slapping on the cuffs.

"Putain, the man was about to slit my throat like a bluefish. And where were you Officer Kane?" Jacques hand rubbed at his abraded neck. “A moment longer, my guts would have been been draining down the scuppers.” Kane chuckled inside, the Canuk was becoming melodramatic, his boat was far to small to have scuppers.

Kane smiled, "That's okay, we would have gotten him for two murders, we found his partner out in the woods, that and smuggling.” Kane turned to Killian, “Not to mention drug dealing and the attempted murder of Popper Popejoy and his wife."

"Mon dieu, this is the last time will cooperate with l gendarmes.” Jacques fell back on the gunwale, supporting his head in his hands, rocking back and forth. “Jamais plus! Jamais plus!”

Kane whipped Killian around, "It is my pleasure to read you your rights."

CHAPTER 31

GILCREST TERRORIZED

The lights were out in the shop, Gilcrest stood in his storeroom doorway, and looked out onto Main Street. The street lights illuminated the passing pedestrians. “Which one is it?” He prided himself for his logic and self control. However, the letters and their demands wore down on him. His right hand played with the gun in his pocket. He had no intention of allowing the threats to continue. And he most certainly would not meet the demands. One figure, a man stopped at his window, he didn’t peer in, but paused, lit a cigarette and returned down the walkway. The bookstore owner wiped at his forehead with a handkerchief. He was beginning to feel this was a ruse, an effort to terrorize him, and break his will. It was working.

***

“I’m here.” Officer Dan Kane announced to Janean. She turned white, her jaw dropped. She knew it was coming, she didn’t think it would happen so quickly, and here in the library. She was sitting at her desk, there were library users off in the stacks, and children in the reading room. “Where is she?” He asked. He was not alone, a female officer accompanied him, someone she had not met.

“You…you won’t bring here through here. Will you?” He shook his head in the negative. A murder and now an arrest. What will the people of Somerset think of us? “She is in her office.” Janean wanted to stand, her legs wouldn’t cooperate. She stared as Kane and his assistant walked down the corridor to Miss Bennett’s office. She looked back to her domain, thankfully no one seemed to notice.

“How dare you!” Came the scream from Bennett’s office. “I demand to talk to a lawyer. I know my rights.” That takes care of a quiet, unobserved exit. Janean shriveled into her chair, head down she toyed with the papers on her desk. Mary should know. She took her phone from her pocket and sent out a short text.

Janean: Kane has just arrested Bennett.

The second she sent the text she had a starling revelation: Who’s in charge? Who turns off the lights and locks the door? Who is responsible for the inmates? And who is going to monitor my every move. A broad smile crossed her face with that thought. More thought, it disappeared. She heard voices at the circulation desk, turning she saw a phalanx staring back at her. Now what have I done. Or not done. Well, I am the only librarian left alive or unarrested. Strength returned to her legs, she stood and joined the remaining library staff. “What do we do Miss Clark?” Polly Fields spoke, addressing Janean for the first time. Janean stood as tall as she could in her. Heels. I need a pair of heels. Then I could really tower over them. No, I would stumble all over the place. She looked into their pleading eyes.

“Okay,” She cleared her voice and squeaked. Cough. “We go about our normal duties. At six we close as normal. And come in as usual in the morning.” All heads nodded in agreement.

“But…Miss Clark where are the keys. Miss Chambers, then Miss Bennett were the only ones that had keys.” Miss Vance whispered.

“Are there keys behind the desk here.” Janean asked. Every library she ever worked in had a set of all the basic keys stored in the top drawer of the circulation desk. The desk closest to the front door, they were often used for emergencies. All heads wagged in the negative. “I’ll check Miss Bennett’s desk.” There was a rapid intake of breath from all parties present excepting Janean.

“Can you do that?”

“That just doesn’t seem right.”

“Maybe they will bring Miss Bennett back. It might have been a mistake. She would be plenty mad if she knew you were in her office.” Miss Cooper rattled on.

“Well…” Janean stalled. She knew that Kane had solid evidence, Bennett would not be returning. She might make bail, but the library board would not allow her in the building.

Janean felt her cell vibrate, she stepped back and looked at the screen. “I just received a message from Mrs Smart. The library board will be meeting here at six to discuss management of the library in the absence of Miss Bennett. They would like to have all library staff present.” There was a whimper or two, muttering and general dismay.

“We never attend board meetings. Miss Chambers, and then Bennett were the only ones.”

“Will they fire us all.”

“That Kane fellow has had it out for the library ever since Miss Chambers scolded him that time.”

High heels, get a pair of heels and learn how to walk in them. “I’m sure that the board will want to talk to all of you…us. They will want everyone to hear the same message…unfiltered.” Unfiltered got a blank look from all faces. “They want everyone to understand what they plan for the future of the library.”

“I don’t know.” Miss Cooper was near tears. “I miss the old days. Everything was always the same. I don’t want change. I don’t want to hear about a future. I want the past.”

***

CHAPTER 32

CATS AND DOGS—SHARING BOOK WITH JANEAN—PIRATE DREAM, WEAVE IN ELEMENTS OF MURDER, DOLE, KANE, DARLENE AND GRUNGE

                 

***

***

Cat and dogs

***

PIRATE DREAM

It was dark, a cold wind blew up the basement stairwell, but perspiration covered Janean. She heard the rasping voice behind her, and a pull at her ankle. She catapulted forward, her head struck the bare wooden step, dazed but a moment, her arms flailed, attempting to pull her away from the grasping hands. Her arms were no match, he thrust foreword collapsing atop her. Tossing her over, straddling her he spat out in triumph. “You are mine to despoil.”

She couldn’t believe this was happening to her, not here in her own library. His vile breath and evil words taunted her. She fought and scratched at him, it seemed to encourage him all the more. He ripped open her blouse exposing, round, virginal breast. He laughed and gave her an evil leer; his rough dirty hands stroked her. She tore off his jewel encrusted eye patch revealing an empty socket. “Aye Missy, Cap’n Jack ‘e enjoys a spirited wench.” The sodden pirate pressed his mouth to hers, she was sickened by the sour smell of rum.

The booming of cannon fire drew their attention to the Quarterdeck, Officer Dan shouted to his men, “Show these scurvy dogs no mercy, and read them their Miranda rights.”? He placed his dagger between his teeth, grabbed a line and swung out, grasping Cap’n Jack by the scruff of his neck. At the apex of the swing he deposited the pirate into a sea aswirl with slathering sharks.

On the return swing Dan took the librarian in his arms carrying her off to his cabin. Her throbbing heart pounded in her chest. Deep inside her she ached for him, wanted him. His eyes raked her body, a lusty smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. Take me, her brain demanded. His eyes focused on her exposed breast, his hands pulled  her close, they coursed down her naked back, she whimpered in his ear, “Is that your sword hilt…”

Janean woke, twisted in sheets and blankets, more tired than when she had fallen asleep. What a dream. She thought about the library basement, the stairwell and people, Dan her gallant savior, Ian the nasty pirate, and one of the sharks reminded her of Miss Chambers. Such a terrible dream, well not all terrible. She slumped back into her pillow and then thought of the time. The alarm hadn’t gone off, a quick look, five-thirty, no time to doze off, might as well face that cruel world out there. She smiled at the thought of Dan, swinging from the yard arms, and Ian, the evil pirate, where did that come from? She shrugged, and shivered as she tossed off the blankets and ran for a hot shower.

JANEAN IS SUSPICIOUS OF DOLE. DOLE THE EVIL PIRATE WOULD BE RIGHT. THE KANE FEATURE WOULD BE OUT OF SYNC BECAUSE SHE HASN’T DEVELOPED FEELING FOR HIM. WORK ON THIS SCENE

CHAPTER 33

2^ND LETTER TO GILCREST, TAKES GUN FROM DESK

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CHAPTER 34

JANEAN RECIEVES NOTE THREATENING TO EXPOSE PETER, SHE THINKS IT IS FROM DOLE, SHE ASKS HERSELF, HOW DOES HE KNOW ABOUT PETER—KANE CALLED OUT TO SCHOOL BUS ACCIDENT—JANEAN TALKS TO MARY, SHE IS GOING TO LIBRARY (DOES SHE MENTION PETER?)—KANE AT ACCIDENT SCENE—DOLE TAKES GUN FROM GLOVE BOX LOADING IT.—KANE AT BRIDGE, CALL OFF FIRST RESPONDERS, CALL FOM MARY—KANE RACES BACK TO TOWN—LIBRARY, GILCREST, TAYLOR, DOLE.—KANES INGLORIOUS ARRIVAL

KANES NIGHT OFF, GUILTY PLEASURES

Officer Dan inspected his curtains, pulled them tight, then started his rounds switching lights off. He tapped a DVD box against his leg as he moved about his apartment. This was the officers night off, there would be no interruptions, just the detective and his flick, his guilty pleasure. He popped the disk in the player, hurdled the coffee table, snatching the remote as he passed over and  crashed into the couch. “Ah!” He settled his oversized body into the cushions, punched the remote and watched for the title, Rock Slyde. He chuckled, this being his second copy of the much admired film. Images from the screen flashed on Kane’s face, his lips moving for each line uttered by the star, Patrick Warburton. The detective felt enlarged by the bumbling but humorous leading man.

“No! Not now!” Kane shouted at the empty room. His cell phone vibrated on the coffee table next to his outstretched feet. Not taking his eyes from the screen, this being the scene where the evil cult leader is vanquished, he answered the call with a growl, “Rock Slyde!”

“No Sophie, it’s me Kane.” His eyes flashed to the screen where Rock and the cult leader were locked in a fight to the death. Then Sophie’s words grabbed his attention. “School bus went off the Parker bridge.” Twenty miles out of town, a deadly drop, a bus full of kids and hers was one of them. “I’m on my way!” He shouted, and clicked the remote off.

(MARY WILL BE TELLING KANE THAT Janean IS MEETING WITH THE KILLER AND HE NEEDS TO GET TO THE LIBRARY—)

He pushed his shirt tails down in his pants, the holster belt flapped at his chest, and he fished in his pockets for his keys as he ran to the patrol car. “Crap! Where is that damn thing?” He muttered. Yanking it from his pocket, the key ring almost flew off, into the dark. He unlocked the door, crammed himself behind the wheel, hit the flashers and sirens, and was off to the library to save Janean. I warned her, told her not to play cop. What does a librarian know? His lips pressed tight, his jaw canted to one side, close to dislocation; the five blocks to the library were covered in record time.

NOTE TO JANEAN

The day was almost over, Janean was looking forward to a decadent evening, Darlene had shared her DVD copy of The Third Man. The librarian was surprised that someone so young would be aware of the film and its many……(LOOK AT WIKIPEDIA) She would fill a bowl of popcorn and enjoy an evening of classic entertainment. Walking around her department she cleared tables, shelved books and straightened the magazine rack.

Back at her desk Janean sat and began putting her desktop in order. “What’s this?” In the middle of her desk was a folded piece of paper, the white copy machine sort. Miss Clark, the note started, I know where your brother Peter is hiding. He is wanted for the suspected murder of Osgood Lomax. If you do not meet with me here at the library tonight, I will let the police know your brother’s location.

Janean stared at the words, I can't believe this, she felt frigid. How would anyone know about Peter? And how did it get here on my desk? There was no one else in the room, Miss Demby, but she was so old...that's unkind. But, it is true. Janean looked at the woman, soon to be an octogenarian. She would have heard the frail woman's wheezing had she approached her desk.

The librarian glanced to the clock, fifteen minutes to closing. She made a sweep through the reference areaas, book stack, magazines. Empty. There were no readers or researcher hidden away

WHO WOULD KNOW ABOUT PETER

HOW WOULD THEY KNOW WHERE TO FIND HIM

WHAT HAPPENS IF I GO TO DAN KANE WILL HE TURN PETER IN, OF COURSE HE WILL, HE’S A COPS COP. OR AT LEAST HE THINKS HE IS. DAMN!

I CAN’T TAKE ANY CHANCES WITH PETER’S LIFE. HE HAS BEEN THOUGH SO MUCH ALREADY. Damn you Lomax. You just can’t stop srewing our lives. ?Even in death.

PEGGY REYNODS ADMONISHED: FIND THE MOTIVE, FIND THE SUSPECT.

Janean sat at her dining room table. She absentmindedly drank coffee with her right hand, she rested her head on her left hand palm.

WHO WHO WHO AND WHY

The note was in front of her, she wanted to scream, wad it up, stomp and tear at the paper and words. That won’t help. She reminded herself. You need to be calm. Questions: Who? What? How? When? Where? And motive. Peggy Reynolds always said that by finding the motive, you find the suspect. Or so Peggy thought.

She had been away from her desk for perhaps fifteen minutes. There it was in the middle of her desk. She was certain that she had not heard anyone enter from the main entrance. Could they have come through the staff entry. Not likely.  She had dismissed library staff. The note was composed on a computer and printed on a laser machine, skills far beyond the staffs  capabilities.

She chewed on her thumbnail. How? How and who would know about Peter? Dole? The farmer’s technological know-how was little better than Miss Dempsy and her mimeograph machine. Kane. A cop could do a background check. She felt that he was aware of Lomax. He saw the scar at the side of her eye, but never commented. New librarian in town, he might be interested in a dark past. Why would he go through with this not thing. Makes no sense.

Mary? Darlene? Grunge? They were friends. And she could think of no motive. She thought of those Agatha Christie stories, where there never seemed to be a connecting motive until Hercule Poirot revealed all.

Gilcrest. He has to know that Kane and I are on to him and his business with Chambers. He conducts sales online, he has computer access for research. She had seen the laser printer behind his desk. And he has no end of motive.

Janean looked at her watch. Damn. I’m running out of time.

Motive. Gilcrest can’t be the only one in town. She began a list on the back of the note. This is crazy. Everyone in town seemed to revile the Director. Dole, the over the edge ecologist. Kane seemed to wince at the mention of her name and pop a calcium tablet. Mary, Darlene, even Ed Flynn at City Garage who claimed she launched a boycott of his business. Not a well liked personage.

Eyes on the watch hands once again. Peter, where are you? She turned over the list and looked at the note for the hundredth time. Who are you, and how is it you know so much?

I give up. Janean put on her overcoat and knit cap, her fingers crushing the note in her pocket as she left her apartment. I feel so stupid, so ill prepared. It was cold and dark out on the sidewalk, only occasional pools of light from the yellow globes above to break the darkness.

IAN DOLE DRIVING TO TOWN

Ian Dole drove the dirt road into town, not the regular route, He wanted to avoid his coming and goings. He reached into the glove compartment, his hand grasped the revolver, swithdrawing it he slipped it into his jacket pocket. "Janean Clark, you little fool."

He looked at the unworking gas guage. It was one of those projects he had put off. He had become adept at calculating his miles traveled over the past week and his fuel consumption. It will be close.

The guage wouldn't take his thoughts away from the librarian and her meddling ways. Some people were unable to sit back ands let go. She was one of those people that had to know how and why things and people worked. And when the answer ws not obvious she felt it was her duty to dig, and dig, no matter who's backyard she wandered into.

Dole thought of himself as a casual, easy going guy. Not easy to ruffle. Janean had a way abiut her, his blood boiled. Sjhe came out to the farm, broke ointo the truck, all to satisfy her unquenchable curiousity. It borders on an obsesion.

He took his foot off the gas peddle as a deer darted out of the under brush.

"Damn!" The trucks engine popped and sputtered slowing to a stop at the side of the road. "Damn!" he fumed. "I'll never get there ahead of her."

Dole slammed the truck door and started off at a jog down the dark roadway.

HIGHER GROUNDS

Janean waved to Mary as she entered the noisy coffeehouse, the after school rush had arrived a mix of high school and college students. She found an unoccupied table at the back of the room, not the sort of table the young would select in their search for social contacts.

Mary found her friend hiding in the dark. Janean patted at the other side of the table, the shop owner sat. “Why so secretive, off in the hinterlands?” she asked. Janean, looked around the room, and slid the note across the table to Mary. Picking up the note she began reading, her brow furrowed as she finished and shoved the missive back to Janean. “Where did the note come from?”

“I found it on my desk when I came back from lunch. It’s a public desk, people pass by, anyone could have dropped it unseen.”

“You’re not considering meeting with this person; and there is no guarantee this is not a prank, or some other predator. Don’t do it Janean, let Officer Dan know, it is dangerous.”

“The note says, no police, he’ll be watching.”

“The risks are so high.”

Janean tapped the edge of the note against the table. “I have to; this has been going on for several months. My life is a shambles, sleeping with men to get info, accidents all over the place, and a job that may or may not be there tomorrow.  We may never solve this; unless I take a chance and meet Ian.” She noted Mary wince at Ian’s name. “I’m sorry.”

“You still think it’s him. I’ve known him too long; I just won’t believe he is capable of murder.”

“Peggy Reynolds and Officer Dan feel that anyone is capable. The cop has suspected me off and on.”

“Ian is such a peaceful, caring person…”

“Still waters run deep.” Janean said. Another one of those sayings Mom used so often.

Mary shrugged, “So what are you going to do?”

“I’ll need your help.”

“Don’t you always.”

Mary’s comment was a dagger at Janean’s heart. Now she felt guilt creeping into the dark recesses of her psyche, she couldn’t afford this, not now. You’re a big girl Janean, Mary meant no harm. She took a deep breath, “Okay, I have to meet with our mystery person at 9:00 p.m. If you could call,” she smiled at Mary, “Kane’s cell right at nine he can come charging in to save the day. That should salve his ego, and we get our murderer.”

Mary’s face betrayed a lack of confidence in the plan. “I don’t know, isn’t this cutting things close; and your expecting a lot of Officer Kane as well. Nice guy and all, he does have his limitations.”

“I’m confident this will all go well. Even Kane can’t screw this up. He walks in puts the cuffs on the guy that’s it.” Janean brimmed with confidence. “And then I have plan “B” in place.”

“That would be…?” Mary wanted more, she wanted to feel confidant.

Janean patted her hand, “I guarantee it will work

***

Gilcrest thinks that it is Janean that has been blackmailing him. The letter, signed by Janean, accused him of Chambers’ murder and threatened to expose his scheme with the director.

Janean has received a letter signed by Gilcrest threatening to direct the police to her brother Peter if she doesn’t meet with him.

Big Reveal: Janean enters the library Gilcrest is behind the door, before she can turn thew lights on he steps out with his gun. He accuses her of blackmail, she doesn't know what he is talking about. He directs her down the basement stairs, they have the confrontation he is going to shoot her when the garrote appears, trapping Gilcrest throat strangling him. Janean is paralyzed, confused as to what is going on. Ethan Taylor knocks the smart phone away. Tells her all, He is going to set it up like a murder suicide.

Ian comes on the scene with the starters pistol, distracting Taylor and rescuing Janean.

This scene has to be structured to produce the maximum of rising and falling tension.

Alternate ending or merge this in some way with Ethan Taylor

Janean was in the local history collection browsing through the old books, she could sense the words, the historical importance they held. From above she heard the landing door open and then close. She felt a shudder, a chill at her spine, she plunged her hands deep into her cardigan pockets, willing herself to be confident.

The foot falls down the stairs were slow, and intentional. “Mr. Gilcrest, come down I have been waiting for you,” Janean called out. The steps came faster, and then the store owner stood facing the librarian.

Gilcrest gave Janean a patronizing smirk, he would never recognizer her as an equal, she dealt with those evil young people who hovered between empty-headed childhood and a fully realized adulthood. She was vacuous, certainly not at his intellectual level.

For a moment she considered going through the social niceties, hellos, good evenings and how is your cat feeling these days. They both knew why they were here, they despised one another, falsehoods would best be avoided. “Both you and Miss Chambers had a great appreciation of books. Is that not true?” She turned back to the books, running her finger lightly along the spines as she moved down the aisle. He followed a few steps behind

“That is a silly question, you have been in my store, any fool could readily see the value I have built there.”

“And Miss Chambers?” The librarian motioned with her hand, “All this, did she appreciate this collection.”

“Another silly question, of course she did. She took great pride in safeguarding them from dirty hands, only the best type were allowed down here, those having an appreciation of fine books, and the knowledge they contain.” He snorted contempt.

Janean pulled a card from her pocket and slipped it between two books, and gave Gilcrest a smile. The book collector’s brow creased, his eyes focused on the card. “What is your point Miss Clark? It is late; I have better uses of my time.” He puffed himself up.

“Mr. Gilcrest that is a shelf list card, are you familiar with the card, and its use in a library?” She asked. He nodded in the affirmative.

“Enough Miss Clark, I have no intention of going through insipid parlor games with you.”

She held up her hand, “Just one moment. That card represents a missing book.” From her pocket she pulled out a stack of cards. “Each one of these cards is for a book that should be down here in this area of the library. The one there,” She pointed to the card protruding between the two books on the shelf, “And the three here are in your store. I’m sure you remember my visit to your store.”

OR

Janean walked across the village from her apartment to the library. It was the sort of night she would enjoy a brisk nighttime walk. The moon was on the rise, there was a crispness in the air, all was well; well not this night. She approached the dark library with dread. A monster’s hand held her stomach in a knot, and her legs were taking on a rubbery quality. Mary’s logic, and foreboding were invading her somewhat conscience brain. What am I doing? Her thoughts were turning to all the negative implications, repercussions that could be fatal. Her footsteps were the only ones to be heard, she felt like the lonely lawman, sent out to protect the cowardly townsmen. And she didn’t have the aid of a six-shooter. What sound advice would Mamma serve up now Janean?

She stopped at the steps leading up to the library. No there were no sounds, save those from the harbor; the metallic ping of rigging slapping against masts; and the loons cries echoing off the seawall. She looked up and down the sidewalk, and across to the park, she was alone on this hapless mission. The unlit windows, above and, and those below at the basement stared blankly at her. Mary said it could be a prank. Don Quixote tipping at windmills came to mind. Shoulders bowed she trudged up the steps.

Turning the key in the old wooden doors there was no click, Janean stopped, someone was inside. Pushing the door a few inches she looked into the darkness. No light. No sounds. Pushing the door further she slithered inside, and paused. Deep breathing! She listened and allowed her eyes to adjust to the dark. The moon’s glow was beginning to filter down from the clearstory windows; large pieces of furniture were taking shape, but still no sounds. She slid her foot forward, courage or foolishness was braving her on. This was her place of work, she needed to take control of herself and the situation; her steps lengthened, she moved with greater ease. The floor creaked at her, she startled, and her heart began to race. “That’s it I’m leaving!” She whispered.

***

Kane’s pulse pounded, anticipating the horror to be found ahead. There was no adjusting, getting used to highway fatalities. His headlights flashed across the rock surfaces of the narrow valley. The “S” curve sign indicated the site of the accident ahead. He expected lights from passing cars, surely someone had stopped to provide voluntary aid, his lights swooped down to the bridge deck, nothing. He stopped in the middle of the solid undamaged structure he was astonished. He had to get out of the car and survey the scene. He walked from one end to the other, all was in order. No skid marks, no crushed guard rail. He leaned over, looking down to the gushing river. He couldn’t believe anyone would call in such a horrible false alarm. He could hear sirens traveling up from below, gotta call this off, he thought, and boiled, thinking of the resources wasted on this prank.

There was a flicker of light coming through the woods to the west, and snaking down to where Kane blocked the road. Arm raised he brought the vehicle to a stop.

Window rolled down the driver called out, “What’s the problem officer?”

“Where you coming from?” Kane asked.

“Augusta.”

“Seen any accidents along the way.”

The driver responded with a head shake in the negative. “Nothing. Next to nothing in the way of traffic.”

“Thanks!” Kane snapped. He was getting madder by the seconds. “Damn fool trick.”

“What’s that officer?”

“False alarm.” Kane looked down the hill. “You can squeeze by me there.” He directed with a wave of his hand. “Watch out for the emergency vehicles coming up.” Kane stepped aside and began the chore of calling off emergency responders.

At his cruiser he notified dispatch. And then he made a call to Sophie Crenshaw. Her son was the starting Center on the basketball team. If she had heard about the fictitious accident, he didn’t want her worrying. “Sophie. Yeah, its Kane. Did you hear about an accident.”

“What accident?” She asked.

“Evidently someone made a hoax call about the basketball team bus.”

“What? I was just on the line with Billy. There was no accident.” She sputtered and fumed. “Oh, Billy and the team won. State champs again this year.”

“Well I’m glad Billy and the team are okay.” Then he growled, “Now we need to track down this sick mind.”

“Damn! What now.” Kane felt his phone vibrate. Retrieving it, punching it on, he snapped “Kane!” He listened. “God Mary, couldn’t you stop her?” Again the pause. “Yeah, she’s strong willed. I’ll be there in ten minutes. We don’t have anyone in town, we were all sent out on this wild goose chase.” Yeah. Maybe it wasn’t a prank after all. Get Janean alone in the library. He flipped the light bar on and pressed the accelerator to the floor. No, this was not a prank. The patrol car slipped and skidded through tight turns, over hills and down into tree shrouded dales.

***

Janean, mind made up to leave, she turned. The floor again creaked, just as she ran into a solid object. “Are you leaving so soon Miss Clark?” Janean was face to face with Mr. Gilcrest. What is Gilcrest doing here? This was making no sense, where is Ian Dole?

“Mr. Gilcrest what are you doing here…in the dark?” She asked. No, it couldn’t be Gilcrest, the man was a bookish little fop…She began to think of the librarian stereotypes, all librarians have buns, grey hair and shush a lot. Now this is getting messy. She took a step back, giving space to think.

Gilcrest, voice wavering, he began to speak, “The note you sent to me Miss Clark ‘For your comfort and my own we need to bring closure…’ That word unfortunately has become so cliché, however for want of a better word it is closure that we need. Isn’t that true Miss Clark?”

“I don’t know3 what note you are talki9ng about. I have sent no notes to you. However, I couldn’t agree with you more.” Janean put a smile in her voice, and took another step back. Gilcrest arm shot out grabbing the librarian. His reflexes and the strength of his grip amazed her. He must work out in the backroom with his ancient tomes. 

“Will you accompany Miss Clark?” He yanked at her arm, pulling her along.

Janean attempted to pull away from the iron grip. No! I think I would like to stay right here. Why did he even ask?

Gilcrest pushed and shoved  Janean forward. She saw faint light in the corner, the realization,  the basement door was open, light streamed up. She was confused, why didn’t she see the light outside.

He hauled her to the door leading down to the local history collection. In the dim light she could see the sadistic grin on his face. This guy has the Jekyll and Hyde thing going. Though his Dr. Jekyll, was not much better than his evil Hyde. After some further interior discussions she decided it was a poor literary allusion. “I would rather not go down there,” she requested. “I still have nightmares about Miss Chambers.”

He snickered, “Miss Clark, after tonight you won’t have to worry about nightmares.” He grabbed both of her hands, pulling her into the stairwell; they stumbled down to the basement level. As they went Janean began piecing together all those disconnected and unconnected pieces. And she remembered Peggy Reynolds admonition, “find the motive and you find the killer.” The Whale book had no connection to Ian; was that a statement on the missing books, books that Miss Chambers and Gilcrest stole from the library and were selling in his store. There was a falling out, and the late director was murdered.  This was her surmise; the only motive that made sense. But the killer found Janean before she found the motive. Details!

Gilcrest dragged Janean down to the site of the last crime scene, she looked at the windows as they passed, they were blacked out with spray paint, and not too good a job, paint ran off to the frames and walls. “Enough Mr. Gilcrest,” Janean pulled her hands free he was breathing

SCENE BELOW NEEDS TO BE REWORKED—NO NEED TO ARGUE OVE THEFT WITH JANEA, HE IS THERE TO KILL HER—SHE COULD DISCUSS THEFT WITH TAYLOR?--??

Gilcrest exhaled an exasperated sigh, “Miss Clark, you can not help but find the same titles here as well as in my establishment. We both have fine collections.”

That is the problem, all of these titles are missing, and four have been found in your store.

“You can not be insinuating that I have stolen books from the library. Are you accusing me of being a sneak thief, a felon.” His face reddened with anger.

“No Mr. Gilcrest, you would not crawl in through a window,” She looked down the aisle to the windows along the wall, “I am suggesting that you and Miss Chambers had an arrangement, she gave you books from this collection, you sold the titles at your shop, and the two of you shared in the profits.” Janean slipped her hands into her pockets, a look of concentration on her face. “The late Director made the mistake of not removing the cards from the shelf list.” Gilcrest looked at the cards that she held up.

“There is no proof, no connection between those cards and the books in my establishment.” He exuded smugness. “You have read far to many of those childish mystery novels.”

“Tomorrow, Detective Kane is going to visit your shop with a warrant, he will take the missing books; and then a crime team will study rubbings from those titles against the adjacent books on these shelves. That should be proof positive of your involvement.”

Gilcrest stared at the cards. He would not allow this upstart to ruin all he had worked for.

Miss Chambers had the mistaken notion that the library was hers, her toy to play with.  Hundreds of titles are missing, I did a quick survey.  Both of you profited nicely.  She knew I was suspicious, you argued and she died.

MR. GILCREST

You don't know what you are talking about, where that book came from.  I deal with many libraries and many book stores.

Evidence!  You and the late Miss Chambers will be exposed.

"I would suppose that you have read scenarios such as this in your vapid teenage entertainments. And the silly little heroin somehow is a able to escape the maw of death at the last moment.  Such fare is to be found only in frivolous novels." Gilcrest mouth twisted into an evil smirk as his hand slipped in his coat pocket. Janean looked down at the sleek, but threatening barrel of a chromed mini-revolver.

"It has a certain beauty to it, but threatening, no the accessory one would expect from a bibliophile." She gave him a broad smile.

His face morphed sinister to perplexed. "What do you find so amusing?"

Her smile broadened all the more as she brought her cell phone from her sweater pocket. Gilcrest squinted. "And what exactly is that?" He questioned with irritation.

"I forgot, you and the late Miss Chambers dismiss modern technology. A cell phone, you have seen them, they are ubiquitous. Our entire conversation has been communicated to my teen rats as you refer to them, my vermin, they and Officer Daniel. They will be here in a moment."

“They were listening?"

“Better than that I have been texting, transmitting your every word and action." There was a pounding at the windows along with muffled shouts.

"That will be the vermin, my rat patrol. Officer Dan will be along as well."

Gilcrest's face reddened. "I will not be ruined by an illiterate gutter snipe such as you." He grabbed Janean by the arm and pushed her away from the windows, in the direction of the stairwell. "Up stairs." He motioned with his chrome plated pistol barrel.

"Mr. Gilcrest, give it up, you know that you are surrounded." Just as Janean spoke, a police sireen could be heard advancing in their direction.

"I have my hostage, the beloved teen librarian, your boyfriend Officer Dan won't let anything happen to you. Now get up those stairs." He pushed at her back. She took one step at a time, slow, hoping, wishing Dan to make an appearance. "Faster." Gilcrest pushed at Janean's back once again, her feet tangled in a loose shoelace. The door above flashed open. She catapulted forward. Gilcrest aimed and fired at the light. With several flashes and corresponding cracks the stairwell filled with smoke and a cry of pain.

A hulking figure filled the doorway as he raced down to Janean. Ian grabbed at her, pulled her into his arms "Are you okay, did he hurt you?" His hands ran over her, inspecting for injuries, looking for broken bones.

She whispered in his ear. "What are you doing? This could be considered sexual harassment." He pushed her back, startled.

"You are okay, I thought I hit you."

"Nothing so dramatic, my loose shoelaces."

He pulled her close and kissed her, she responded with verve.

Her eyes popped open and peered over his shoulder. “Ian, where is Gilcrest?"

"Oh!" He looked behind her, no Gilcrest. "Stay here." He set her to the side, gun drawn he went down the well. At the bottom he found Gilcrest's weapon, and a trail of blood across the floor. On the far wall he could see that one of the windows was ajar, the step stool below it. looking out he could hear Janean's skateboarders taunting an encircled and enraged bibliophile. (Ethan Taylor, newspaper reporter)

Ethan Taylor steps in from the dark, slips the garrot around Gilcrest neck, choking the life out of him with one hand. The other holds a gun on Janean, he slaps the smartphone from her hand. “You won’t be needing that, as he yanks harder on the wire ending the life of the soon to be late, antiquarian.

***

He slammed on the breaks in front of the library; the rear end fishtailed, the car throwing off a spray of water, and then slammed into the curb. Smugness twitched at his mouth, what a deft and of course well planned maneuver. He pulled his weapon from his holster, clicked off the safety and pulled on the door handle. And then he pulled on the door handle. The door handle, the damn door handle wouldn’t open the blasted door. “God damn it!” He slammed the heel of his hand into the top of the steering wheel; the headlights flashed, the dashboard did the same, and the siren began a slow undulating squawk, squawk.

Janean lay in her bed, buried in her comforter, she listened to the night sounds, brought in from the open window. She would keep the window open until the first freeze, she loved the fresh air and the lulling sounds of the harbor buoys and the dew dripping off the roof to the leaves below. Without effort she slipped into deep REM sleep. Her dreams took her to strange environs, and odd sexual couplings involving herself, at one moment with Ian Dole and the next with Officer Dan. There was mountain climbing, rumbling around in a pup tent, and being chased through the woods by a fox, with Dan firing his weapon to no effect at the pursuing beast.

Her hedonistic romps were interrupted by the call of her iPod, she slapped at the dock, and fell back into bed emotionally ravished. She enjoyed the memories, but was conflicted by her inability to find a deeper connection with either guy. Be that as it may, she was having difficulty suppressing the smile that wanted to populate her face.

Refreshed by her shower, dressed and rejuvenated by her first cup of the day, Janean sat, steam rising up into her face, absorbing the caffeine, she pondered her life. Dreams were pleasant, more than pleasant, but not the real thing. When was she going to decide, could she decide. Ian, Dan, maybe neither one. Could Dole commit to some form of compromise with the modern urban world. Could Dan ever let the cell phone ring, she needed her climax.

Why did she have to think of that word, she felt the vibration in her pocket. Pulling it from its refuge she saw that the call was coming from Dan, Officer Dan. “Miss Clark, Library Director,” She opened the conversation, a smug smile on her face as she listened. “Now? … I will need to consult my planner,” She rustled the newspaper on the kitchen table. “Well, I just might be able to work you in to my busy schedule.” The smile was full bore, she was having too much fun with her favorite Cop.

Officer Dan was at his desk, his ongoing investigations were to be seen stacked from one end of his desk to the other. Sitting in one of the guest chairs sat Ian Dole, with his typewriter in his lap. Janean tapped on the door jamb, “You want me now?” She said to the room.

“Always, anytime,” Dan responded. Dole did his best to be neutral, no enigmatic smiles. Dan stood, and pointed to the empty chair, “We were expecting you. Dole and I were discussing Gilcrest and the Crawford family.

“Miss Chambers and Gilcrest made an error with their crime spree. Miss Chambers didn’t withdraw the cards from the shelflist, that was our smoking gun, also it will allow us to determine what was stolen and what the city can retrieve. The money recovered could go toward modernizing our services, computers, the Internet, and...”Making a point of looking at Dole, “Making the building energy efficient.”

Like a puppet Gilcrest body was yanked backward, his arms flailing the air. Janean jumped and froze. The shopkeepers eyes bulged and mouth contorted, just as  Miss Chambers had looked, laying on the floor. The deathly dance seemed to go on forever, legs kicking and arms churning. then Gilcrest fell to the floor, it was over. She stared at the unmoving form. Then out of the dark stepped Ethan Taylor. “Ethan, what are you doing here?” Her shaking hands were at here face, “We should call the police, you heard him threaten me. I am so thankful you were here.” The words stumbled from her. She was having difficulty understanding the scene. Why was the newspaper reporter here in the basement, and why was he prepared to kill Gilcrest. Wrapped around the dead mans throat was a garrote identical to the one that killed Chambers. This was surreal, she was unable to fathom the meaning of what was going on.

Janean’s focus moved from the body on the floor to Ethan Taylor. This was not the face would expect from ones hero, the man that just saved your life. No, it was calculating and sinister. “I will phone the police Miss Clark, as soon as I am finished with you.” The librarian was beginning to sense unease. This guy was not sounding like the rescue squad. He bent down and retrieved the the late Mr. Gilcrest’s gun. He hefted it in his hand, getting a feel for it. “Sorry Ms Clark,” He smirked. Bastard he is enjoying this. “Your demise is just a small piece in my puzzle. A puzzle that I will solve in a series of front page articles. Articles that will guarantee my exit from this backwater swamp to a big city paper, where my talents will bloom once again.”

She shook her head, “I thought it was Dole. He and Miss Chambers hated one another.” She stood arms slack at ther side, “I thought it was Dole.”

He swung the pistol in the air between the two of them. “My talents are wasted in this village. I am far beyond the likes of you and that dumb cop. I planned it all, from the beginning. I saw the conflict between you and the beloved Library Director. You offered me the chance to craft a murder and to be the sole problem solver.” He gave her a smug smile. “I thought it would all come together after Chambers, but you kept unraveling things. The story went on and actually improved. I made Gilcrest here,” He gave the late book dealer an unceremonious kick, “think that you were blackmailing him. And you, I strung along with notes and contrived evidence.”

“And now the end of the story. The mad librarian, killing her boss and then the bookstore owner, now out of remorse takes her own life. How sad. I have it typed up on my computer at home. You have made it so simple, you, Gilcrest here and Chambers.” He raised the gun, took hold of her arms and pointed the barrel at her head. He hissed into her face, “Poor demented thing, you must end it all. The reality is too much to deal with.”

The reality of the hard, cold steel pressed against her temple brought her to life. His hot breath was in her face, his hands crushing her wrists vice-like. No escape. Self defense classes ran through her head like a film in fast motion. He’s a guy, right. She focused her mind and every muscle in her calf and upper leg to one place. She let lose, thrusting into his groin. Taylor sputtered and then yowled like a Tom Cat. His hands went slack, his body scissored.

Janean ran across the room, in the distance she heard the sound of a police siren. What took him so long?

Lighting in the room

How does she distract him

Light flickered through the trees as Kane drove back to town. He groused about Ian Dole, how dare he put me off, I know he’s lying, he knows where the Popejoy kids are. He became angrier by the mile. Not a thing I can do, he pounded the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. Old Puritans had the right idea, throw ‘em in the well, see if they tell the truth. He then thought of the Salem witch mania and the Innocent lives taken. Guess the old well trick is out. He was irritated this couldn’t be resolved now, and that old crone from protective services would be called in. He didn’t like sharing his turf with others. He whipped his cell phone from his shirt pocket, and tapped a number. “Trudy, Kane here. Give Child Protective Services a call. Those Popejoy kids are being housed out here by Ian Dole or one of his associates in crime. That old Jessup broad can scour the woods for them.” He paused. “Yeah, thanks.” Trudy had a habit of needling Kane about his crush on Jessup.

CHAPTER 35

WRAP UP

NOTES:

Dole sees note on Janean’s desk, he can’t interfere, jeopardizing Peter.

Dole has truck problems getting in to town, runs out of gas. He walks the rest of the way, making him late.

Janean, thinking as she walks to Higher Grounds

At what point does Janean contact Grunge and Darlene on her phone?

Janean’s scar near her eye, reminder of Lomax. Perfection is not possible in an imperfect world.

Ian Dole wasn’t the sort to look in peoples windows. He let friends and neighbors be. Religion, sexual preferences were not concerns of his. However, he had decided that Popper Popejoy had gone too far. The altercation with Professor  XXX, the public throttling and threats of murder were not acceptable. Dole would have a talk with Popejoy, ask him to leave and explain acceptable behavior.

The thought of sending off Portland and Bangor, even Natasha, with the witless father and husband, gnawed at Dole. Can’t care for every hopeless case that comes along. He shuddered that he could be so callous.

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36 CHAPTER NAME

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37 CHAPTER NAME

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38 CHAPTER NAME

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39 CHAPTER NAME

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40 CHAPTER NAME

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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