By the Book (The Last Picks #7)

Chapter 9

When I tried the door, it opened a fraction and then stopped.

“Someone blocked it,” my dad announced. “We’re trapped.”

I gave him a flat look, but it rolled right off him.

“The killer,” my mom announced.

(They were in an announcing mood, it appeared.)

“What do you mean we’re trapped?” Stewart asked, poking his head up from behind the protective barrier of his book truck. “We can’t be trapped.”

“Nobody trapped us,” I said. It was an idiotic thing to say. It was obviously untrue. And still, somehow, I couldn’t keep myself from saying it. I gave the door another pull. Again, it shifted in its frame and then stopped.

“Let me try,” my dad said.

“What are you going to try?” I asked. “I know how to open a door.”

“Let your father try,” my mom said.

I moved out of the way so my dad could do exactly what I’d done. When that didn’t work (big surprise), my dad changed his stance. He planted one foot on the jamb. His face slowly grew redder and redder.

“You’re going to throw your back out,” my mom said.

“You’re going to have a heart attack,” I said.

“We can’t be trapped,” Stewart said. “Nobody’s at the circulation desk.”

Someone running off with a contraband Danielle Steel seemed like the least of our worries, but I said, “Nobody trapped us in here. Why would someone trap us?”

“Well, we’re trapped,” my mom said. “How do you explain that?”

“A bookshelf fell over.”

“Completely silently? And even though the door opens inward, the bookshelf is blocking it?”

“Maybe it’s a magic bookshelf,” I said—and not in my most, uh, filial tone. “I don’t know. And that’s not the real issue anyway.”

“Maybe I should shoot the lock out,” my dad said. He stepped back from the door, gulping air, and swept back his corduroy jacket.

“No!” my mom and I shouted at the same time.

My dad’s disappointment was palpable, but he let the jacket fall back to his side.

I paused, trying to recalibrate to the unreality of my parents’—well, stupidity. Whatever gravity last night’s death might have produced, it was gone now. My parents were back to sneaking around, snooping, playing detective. (I tried not to acknowledge my own hypocrisy.) And I knew why: because they were back inside their private universe, living out their lives that touched the real world only incidentally. The fact that this was a real murder, and we were in real trouble, didn’t bother them any more than, say, abandoning a ten-year-old boy at home because his social anxiety made him a burden at award banquets.

“We have to get out of here,” Stewart said. “You have to get us out of here.”

“Let’s all calm down,” I tried.

“But the circulation desk—”

My mom scoffed. “Like our biggest worry is someone running off with a stolen Danielle Steel.”

I pretended not to hear that. Instead, I said, “Why are you here?”

“I work here,” Stewart said.

I rubbed my eyeballs to keep them from popping out of pure frustration. Finally I managed to say, “Not you.”

“We’re doing what the sheriff asked,” my mom said. “We’re solving the mayor’s murder.”

“And the killer is right there.” My dad pointed at Stewart. “We were about to beat a confession out of him when you interrupted us.”

“You were going to—” I stopped myself. I held up a hand. “No,” I said. “Absolutely not. I will not engage.”

“He made repeated tweets and posts threatening the mayor,” my mom said.

Stewart’s eyes got huge behind the Coke-bottle glasses. “I did not!”

But my dad nodded. “Kept saying she’d get what she deserved. And bang—she did.”

“That’s not—I didn’t mean—”

“He disappeared from the party shortly after the diary was discovered missing,” my mom said.

“And,” my dad said, “he doesn’t have an alibi for last night.”

“How could you possibly know that?” I asked. “You didn’t even have time to beat a confession out of him.”

My mom’s expression suggested she was not amused, but all she said was “Ask him.”

We all looked at Stewart.

“I live alone,” he said. “I went home and went straight to bed.”

“That’s exactly what the murderer would say,” my dad said.

“Wouldn’t the murderer try to come up with an alibi?” I asked. “Wouldn’t that be a better plan?”

“Don’t be na?ve, Dashiell.” My mom took out her phone. “Now, I think it would look better if we could solve this murder as a family. So, let’s make sure we’re all in the frame when Stewart confesses.”

Stewart’s cheeks were pink, and he was breathing rapidly. It was hard to tell behind those thick glasses, but it looked like his eyes were shifting back and forth. To my immense disappointment, he looked—in a word—guilty. “I didn’t do anything,” he wailed.

“Why would he kill the mayor?” I asked.

“To recover the book,” my dad said.

My mom nodded. “Save the library and punish the mayor, all in one fell swoop.”

I had my doubts about that—although if anyone loved a library enough to kill, Stewart and Mrs. Shufflebottom would have made the list. What I said, though, was “But the diary was a fake; I’m almost positive. And Stewart’s the one who keeps telling everyone it’s a fake.”

“Then the diary is a red herring, and he only wanted to get revenge on the mayor.”

Okay, that actually wasn’t a terrible theory. I gave Stewart another considering look. He was sweating, and his glasses were slipping down his nose in slow motion.

“You’re better at this than I am,” my mom said, holding out her phone. “Make sure you get all of us while I tell him to confess.”

Since I didn’t want to live through that again (one time of being scared out of my shorts was enough, thanks), I asked, “Did anybody see you get home last night? What about your phone records? Did you go home and use the wi-fi? There’s got to be something that can confirm you were home, Stewart.”

“My phone was off so it wouldn’t ring during the auction,” he said. “And I went to sleep as soon as I got home. I can’t believe this. I didn’t do anything!”

“Balderdash,” my dad said.

(He did not say balderdash.)

“If Stewart’s the killer,” I asked, “who trapped us in here?”

Nobody said anything to that for several long seconds.

“He has an accomplice,” my dad said.

“So,” my mom said, “you admit we’re trapped?”

I took a deep, calming, cleansing breath. And then I took out my phone. I didn’t have any service. Neither, it turned out, did my parents or Stewart. Something about the library’s construction must have interfered with the signal. There was, however, a single bar of wi-fi. We spent a few silent minutes trying to connect with no success.

The genealogical and local history room had the dubious distinction of making the rest of the library look exciting in comparison. Locking bookcases with sliding glass doors lined the walls. They were filled with old historical volumes, like the ones I’d seen on the cart, plus binders, and even banker’s boxes. On top of the shelves were framed maps and bronze busts of—all men, and all looking a little like Harry S. Truman. (I mean, I knew they weren’t Truman, but the resemblance was definitely there.) Tables and chairs provided a workspace in the center of the room. There were a few workstations with desktop computers and microfilm readers, and then a reference desk where, in happier times, a librarian had probably sat. My favorite (read: least favorite) part was the framed family trees on the walls. They were the kind with spaces left next to the names so that you could include a photo of Great-grandpappy Barnabas. The result was that there were about a million grim-faced Oregon pioneers who had somehow survived dysentery and river crossings and having to hunt buffalo (yes, the extent of my knowledge is based on the Oregon Trail computer game) and were now staring back at me in black-and-white, and they looked like they disapproved of all of my life choices. (Welcome to the club.)

“Stewart, boot up one of the computers and send somebody an email,” I said. “Dad—”

“I can shoot the lock out.”

“Nope. Check the librarian’s desk and see what’s in there. Tools, or things we can use as tools.”

Nodding, my dad moved off toward the desk.

“What about me?” my mom asked. “Oh fudge.” (Nope, not even close to what she actually said.) “I should have been recording this. Can you say it again?”

“You sit down and try not to exert yourself. Don’t think I forgot our earlier conversation.”

My mom did not sit down, of course. She followed me as I pulled out one of the chairs and stood on it. I popped out one of the acoustic tiles from the drop ceiling easily enough, but when I tested the grid with a few experimental tugs, I almost pulled the whole thing down.

“Have you been working out?” my mom asked.

I chose not to respond to that.

“Dash, I found a vent,” my dad called. “Do you want to try to crawl through it?”

“Uh, no. No, I do not.”

“Do you know what would be lovely?” my mom said. “If there were a secret passage.”

“There’s no secret passage.”

“I know there’s not a secret passage. I’m saying it would be lovely if there were one. And what if one of the librarians hid a body in it? The body of her former lover! Who was a book banner—uh, someone who banned books! And they had a child together, and—”

Amnesia, I thought.

“—she has amnesia! Wouldn’t it be deliciously macabre?”

See, when Fox and Keme and Bobby tease me, this is what they don’t understand. This is the raw material I was working with.

“We could use one of these desks as a battering ram,” my dad said. “I bet these walls are ordinary two-by-fours.”

“Who should I email?” Stewart asked from the computer.

“Anyone,” I said. “Literally anyone who can come let us out. Dad, no battering ram. We’ve been in here for, like, five minutes. We don’t need to knock a wall down like Talon Maverick on horse amphetamines.”

“Talon Maverick had to take horse amphetamines once,” my dad said. “He ripped a guy’s leg off.”

This is what I’m talking about. I never had a chance.

“Do something like you’ve done in another investigation,” my mom said. “We’d love to see that. Something we could talk about on tour, you know?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, Dashiell. Whatever you want. Oh, something impressive!”

“I could email Mrs. Shufflebottom,” Stewart offered.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I counted to five. Then I said, “How about this? Email the sheriff’s office.”

“Great idea, son,” my dad said.

My mom said, “And now we wait.”

“Did you talk to him about the book?” my dad asked.

“I tried. He’s being defiant.”

“I’m not being defiant,” I said. And then, since I had no idea if an email to the sheriff’s department would do the trick, I decided to take matters into my own hands—literally, in this case. I glared at them each in turn as I unlaced one of my shoes and worked it off. “The answer is no. N. O. I’m not telling you about the project. I’m not letting you see the manuscript. And I don’t care what you say—I don’t want your money.”

No one spoke as I made my way, one-shoed, toward the vent that my dad had found earlier. He’d removed the register, and I sat next to the opening. Using my shoe as an improvised mallet, I hit the duct. The metal boomed. I did it again.

After what couldn’t have been more than a minute, my mom said, “So, what are you going to do?”

I pretended not to hear her. It was pretty convincing, since I was doing some serious pounding with my shoe.

“I know you can hear me,” my mom said. “Pretending everything’s okay isn’t going to make your problems go away. You’re out of money. You don’t have a job. Your father and I can’t support you forever—”

“Patricia,” my dad said.

“No, Dad,” I said, “let her talk. You aren’t going to support me forever. Fine. We already talked about that. On the phone. When you were in New Hampshire. And then you drove three thousand miles anyway. I already told you I don’t want your money. I’ll figure it out.”

“How?” my mom asked.

I should have ignored her. I should have been the adult and put an end to the conversation.

Instead, I said, “I don’t know. That’s where ‘I’ll figure it out’ comes in.”

“Are you going to get a job? Where would you work?”

“There’s a bookstore. Maybe I’ll work there.” Although I probably wouldn’t, since it was owned by Pippi’s husband, Stephen, and the thought alone was enough to make me break out in hives. “Maybe I’ll work at Chipper.” That seemed like an even worse idea—I had a vision of Millie as my boss and being told, at Millie volume, to SMILE. “I could work on a fishing boat. I could fish.”

My dad laughed. When I turned a death ray on him, he did a poor job of trying to pretend it was a cough.

“You’re being stubborn,” my mom said. “And self-centered.”

I froze, shoe raised in one hand mid-bang. This high-pitched white scream of a noise started in my head. I didn’t recognize my own voice when I said, “ I’m being self-centered?”

“Patricia,” my dad said, rocking forward in his chair.

“Frankly, yes,” my mom said. “Your father and I—and Phil—have done nothing but try to help you, and instead of accepting that help, you insist on this self-pitying, adolescent navel-gazing.”

I brought my shoe down hard. The entire duct flexed and boomed.

In the silence that came after, my mom’s voice said, “I’m not unsympathetic to your situation, Dashiell. The creative process is…fraught. I know that better than anyone. But don’t you understand how lucky you are? You have this incredible opportunity—this combination of talent and connections and circumstances. People know who you are, Dashiell. You’ve solved murders. You put Vivienne Carver in prison. And you’re good . You’re such a good writer. But nothing lasts forever, and you’re running out of time. Bobby is very sweet, I’m sure, but explain your plan to me. Are you going to stay here forever and hope he can take care of you—”

The sneaker fell from my hand with a hollow clatter. I got to my feet. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me. And you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

My mom slanted a cool look at me. “Of course I do. I know you .”

I opened my mouth, and I wasn’t sure what was going to come out. Thoughts bubbled up—ragged sentences, barely words. I ate ramen for a week when I was eight because you were busy finishing a manuscript. When I came out, you asked if you could use what I said in your next book. You went to the Edgar Awards when I was in the hospital with pneumonia. You were never home. You don’t know me. You can’t even see me.

Before I could speak, though, a thump came from the door, and it swung open.

“DASH!”

Cue the world’s loudest cavalry.

Keme tried to come through the door first, but Millie pushed past him. She glanced around until her gaze settled on me, and then she said, “YOU’RE OKAY!”

By that point, Keme had joined her. He didn’t seem to share Millie’s relief, though. If anything, he looked like he wished the rest of us had stayed trapped for a little longer, leaving him alone with Millie.

Maybe Millie caught the vibe, because her excitement dimmed, and her volume dropped. “We didn’t know where you were. First, I broke the water fountain so Stewart wouldn’t realize it was a trick.”

“Wait,” Stewart said. “What?”

“Then Stewart tried to fix it. And then I tried to fix it, only I couldn’t because I’d broken it so well.” This little fact appeared to cheer Millie up. “And then Stewart snuck away when I wasn’t looking, and Keme and I couldn’t find you anywhere, and Bobby keeps calling, and I think he’s MAD. OH! And that was SO SMART to use the vents to carry the noise. How’d you know to do that?”

“Like everything else in my life,” I said as I pushed past her and Keme and out into the stacks. “I read it in a book.”