Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Phoebe
When I walk up to the Spring Brook campus library at 8:00 the next morning, Jay is already sitting on the top step holding two cups of coffee. “Cream, two sugars, and some caffeine before we start the search.”
“That’s sweet of you, but …” I nod at the sign on the library door stating no food and drinks are allowed inside.
He tsks. “Guess that means you’ll have to sit out here and visit with me until the coffee is gone.”
I roll my eyes but take the coffee and settle near him on the step to leave plenty of room for people to use the stairs. Truly. That’s the only reason. It’s definitely not because he’s dressed in tan slacks and a pale pink button-down that make him look extra East Coast Ivy.
I smooth my dress over my knees. I took the opportunity to wear something less office-y, plucking a green and yellow floral dress from my closet with a wider sweetheart neckline than I would wear to work. It had looked like late June hanging there in my closet, and I feel like walking summer in it now, especially with the white sandals I chose. “Any more tea sets show up? ”
“A stack of fourteen by the back door.”
“You joke, but at this point, I’m expecting it.”
“Sure you don’t want to just do a tea set museum?” he asks. “You’re halfway there.”
I pretend to give it thought. “Do you think that’s what Foster wanted?”
“He was not a tea guy,” Jay says. “Okay. No tea museum.”
“How’s your book going?” I ask.
He takes a sip and considers this. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Ask to be polite.”
“I’m genuinely curious, History Hottie.”
He groans. “Curse my incredible beauty,” he mumbles into his cup, and I laugh.
“Maybe I’m halfway through your first Revolutionary Rogues book, and I want to know how soon my supply will dry up.” I’m absolutely halfway through it. I ordered it two weeks ago, but after learning about his teaching ambitions, I started it last night and stayed up way too late reading. Jay’s an excellent writer. He makes historical figures pulsate with menace and bad intentions.
“I’m stuck,” he admits. “Part of what makes villains compelling is that in their minds, they’re usually heroes. Or at least antiheroes. They have a justification they believe in. But Old Sam, he’s not like that. It was about pure profit for him, and right now this book is a list of chapters about why he was a dirt bag.”
“Does that mean you don’t have enough for a book?”
“I have a long enough book, but that doesn’t mean it will be good. I thought when I started pulling on the thread of why Old Sam sold out to the British, the reason would emerge. I still haven’t found any reason except greed.”
“Maybe it’s nothing more complicated than that. ”
“Maybe.” He sighs. “I’m trying to come to terms with that. And with writing a boring book.”
I smile. “I like that you care so much.”
“You thought I wouldn’t?”
I might have assumed he wouldn’t care much about not understanding Samuel Davis Brown before yesterday, but one confession, dozens of videos, and half a book of his later, I know better.
“You’ll figure it out.” It comes out more earnest than I intend it to, and I want to shift the mood. I scan the expanse of green lawn between the campus buildings. “It’s quiet around here.”
“It’s early on a summer day at a small college.”
“True.” My cup is still half full, but I’m anxious to get into the archive and find answers. “I’m ready.”
We deposit our cups in the trash and walk in. The girl at the information desk looks mildly surprised to see visitors, but I explain our connection to the museum, and she tells us where to find the microfilm archive downstairs.
The woman at that reference desk is closer to our age, and she glances up from her computer with a distracted expression until she focuses on Jay. Suddenly, she’s all attention, sitting up straighter. Did she push her chest out? I think she pushed her chest out.
She gives Jay a friendly smile. “Can I help you?”
“We’re looking for old issues of the Springs Gazette ,” I answer. “The city librarian said the college acquired their collection. Is the public able to access them?”
“Generally, no, but since I run this floor, I can make an exception if I want to.” She gives Jay a flirty grin.
Wow. I’m not remotely shy about flirting when I want to, but I’ve never been this bold. How does she know I’m not with Jay, and not just with Jay?
“A woman in power, huh? Nice,” Jay says .
Is he flirting back?
She leans forward—way forward—still smiling at him. “Looking for anything in particular? They’re not indexed, so a broad search can be challenging.”
I think she’s inviting him to look for whatever he’s missing in her cleavage.
“A mysterious woman from the past,” he says with a lifted eyebrow. “Possibly a beauty queen.”
“I love that,” Sexy Librarian says. “Much more interesting than most of the searches people do.”
Is she kidding with this? Librarians aren’t supposed to judge people’s research topics. They’re supposed to be nice and help.
“I’d be happy to help you with that,” she continues.
Ah, there it is.
“I’m almost done with my dissertation in information science,” she says, “and I’ve got mean research skills.”
“Information science,” I say. “Impressive. I don’t know anyone with a PhD in that”—except for half of all librarians—“do you, Jay?”
“Sounds interesting.” His easy smile never wavers as he keeps eye contact with her, but he doesn’t need to work this hard when this woman is hurling herself onto his hook.
“You should tell him more about it,” I suggest to the librarian. “I’m familiar with microfilm, if you don’t mind pointing me in the right direction.” I make sure my tone is amused, not peevish, and she can’t refuse an opportunity for alone time with Jay. Look at me being such a good friend and wingman.
She points to the left. “Past the shelves and around the corner. They’re stored by the periodicals.”
I thank her and head that direction, giving her bonus points for never taking her eyes off Jay as she says it.
Since I’m sure the computer catalog will require a student ID number, I don’t bother checking it. Instead, I go straight to the shelved boxes of microfilm. It’s not large, taking up three aisles. I only need to work halfway down one row before I figure out how it’s organized and quickly locate the shelves holding the film for the Springs Gazette . Each box holds two weeks of issues, and I scan the labels until I find March 1966 on the bottom shelf.
Working off a hunch that the pageant happened on a Saturday, I’ll start with the Sunday and Monday editions. I take the two boxes for March 1966 with me to look for the microfilm readers. Thankfully, they’re similar to the ones I used in college, and I turn one on and load it with no trouble.
The front page of the Springs Gazette from Tuesday, March 1, appears on the screen, and I get goosebumps down my shoulders and arms. That feeling means we’re going to find something. Or I am, since I’m here by myself. But it’s always been my mystery to solve anyway.
I scan the headlines about a Soviet probe crash on Venus, marking Earth’s first contact with another planet’s surface. Another about Congress approving funds for the military in Vietnam. I force myself to scroll quickly past it, to look for the Saturday and Sunday issues, knowing how easily I can get lost in the past.
I’m halfway through the first Sunday edition when Jay appears around the end of the shelves.
“You ditched me,” he says.
“Nah. I ran off in search of answers.” I tap the screen. “ Springs Gazette , March 1966. I’m trying Sundays and Mondays first, and if that doesn’t turn anything up, I’ll go back through the other days.”
He picks up the other box and sits at the reader beside me. “I’ll take the second half of March.” He loads his film and starts looking. “Why didn’t Dear Heart write better clues? Didn’t he know nosy people would be trying to figure out who he was sixty years after he wrote them?”
“No excuse for that kind of carelessness.”
We each settle in to look through our film. I mostly resist getting sucked down the highly enticing rabbit holes of 1966 headlines. After a few minutes, I tell Jay, “You can skip to the local section. Pretty sure that’s where they’d put it if they ran it.”
“Good note.”
After about twenty minutes, I’m on the second Monday of March when Jay says my name. “I found it.”
He’s pointing at a photo of several young women in evening gowns and pageant sashes. The headline reads “Local Beauties Compete for Crown.”
“Phoebe, look.” He enlarges the caption beneath the photo. “It has all of their names, first and last.”
I do a quick count. “Eleven contestants. Read it. Let’s see if it gives us any information on them.”
“‘Joan Hubbard, a green-eyed brunette with a twenty-three-inch waist, was crowned the new Miss Serendipity at the conclusion of the annual three-day beauty contest on Saturday.’” He reads through the overview of the competition from the preliminaries through swimsuit judging and interviews. “‘The public portion began on Saturday evening with an announcement of the five semifinalists, who then entertained and impressed the audience in the civic theater during the talent competition. The prize went to Martha Nixdorf for her lively performance on accordion.
“‘The evening gown portion followed with the top prize going to Joan Hubbard. Her maidenly pale pink beaded gown won extra applause when it was revealed she had it made locally at Diane’s on Main Street instead of by a Boston or New York dressmaker.
“‘In the final interview section, the young ladies answered questions about what it means to represent Serendipity Springs and how they reflect the city’s values.
“‘After what the judges assured the master of ceremonies was a challenging discussion, the winner was announced and Joan Hubbard was presented as the new Miss Serendipity. Miss Serendipity will be supported by her court made up of the other finalists.’ Then the article lists them.”
“Let me see.” I scoot my chair over and read off the names. “Katherine Dailey, Natalie Betts, Cathy McCormick, and Judy Everett.”
“Any of them look like they would call a man Dear Heart?” he jokes.
I take pictures of the article and the photo caption naming all the contestants. “Whatever happened to them, I hope Martha Nixdorf the accordion player married into a better last name.”
Jay gives me a sharp look and glances around. “You can’t make regressive statements in the library of a former women’s college, or you’ll be haunted by the ghosts of all the old spinsters who never married because they were too bookish.”
“Can you zoom in on the photo?” I study the enlarged picture of the eleven contestants, their flawless skin and demure pearls. “Do we agree that one of these is Smitten Kitten?”
“We do.” He also takes pictures of the article. “How do you want to tackle this? Put me in, coach.”
“How about you take the finalists, and I’ll look up the other six?”
“It’s not going to be Joan Hubbard because she’s not a teacher.”
“True. Does Smitten Kitten strike you as an accordion player?”
“She does not.”
“Let’s cross off Martha Nixdorf too. ”
“Shhh,” he hisses. “Her ghost will hear you.”
“Saint Czestochowa will protect me. Never mind,” I say when he gives me a confused look. “That leaves me with five names and you with four. Does that work for you?”
“Yeah, I’m on it.”
“I’ll reshelve these.”
“I’ll turn off the machines.”
A minute later, he finds me crouched in the microfilm section, sliding the boxes into place. He holds out a hand to help me up, and when I take it, I’m surprised to feel the light rasp of calluses against my palm. The friction sends a pulse of electricity down my back, but I force myself not to react. Instead, I blink and let go, turning to lead us out of the aisle.
When we near the reference desk, Sexy Librarian spots us and comes around to lean against it as we approach.
“Find what you’re looking for?” she asks.
Nothing about the way Jay and I have interacted suggests we’re a couple, so I understand why she’s shooting her shot. But she is every woman on every dating show who says “I’m not here to make friends.” I want to tell her Careful, because your girls will be here long after the boys move on. But maybe she’s got a great girl gang. Maybe she’s only ignoring me because I’m standing next to the man she’s got her eye on.
Whatever. I’m not in this competition, so I smile at her in a way that says I hope you win because I don’t care . A flicker of concern crosses Jay’s face, and Sexy Librarian’s flirty smile wavers for a split second.
Huh. Maybe that’s not what my smile said?
I give up and settle for answering the question. “I might have found what I needed. It was a good start. Ready to go, Jay?”
“I’m going to stay for a bit. I want to see what they have in their archives about old Sam.”
Suuuuuure. More like he needs to get his flirt on before the pressure builds and pops his eyeballs out of his head. It must be so challenging for him to have to contain all that charm without regular target practice.
I’m beginning to see why he has to lock himself in a cottage to get his books done.
“See you at work,” I say as I head for the stairs. I’m letting the librarian know she’s got open access.
Back at the main house, I slip on a cardigan, pull my hair into a low ponytail, and consider going home to switch out my shoes for more professional loafers—or for a different outfit altogether. I decide not to on the grounds that if I run into Jay again today, he’ll infer I dressed differently for him this morning. And that’s because like an idiot, I did.
I work through lunch, only rewarding myself with a small break to call Francie and catch her up on my library adventures. “So now I have a list of names,” I conclude. “We’re getting somewhere.”
“Uh-huh, that’s nice, but tell me about Jay.”
“Nothing to tell.” I keep my eye on the door. Not going to get busted talking about him a second time. “He met me at the library. He found the pageant article. He’s not useless.” I feel a pang of guilt for saying it that way, as if there were any question that he might be. But Francie will turn the tiniest nothing into something, and I don’t want her running away with this.
“So the beautiful rich man went to the library with you this morning because he loves old newspapers and not because he thinks his grandfather’s hire is super hot?”
“He probably does think I’m super-hot, but that’s not why he came to the library with me. He’s curious about these letters too.”
“There is absolutely more to this,” she says. “You’re telling me there’s nothing going on between you two? ”
“I learned my lesson with Hayes. I won’t date anyone work-adjacent. The end.”
“But you would date Jay if he wasn’t connected to the museum?”
There’s that word again. “Moot point. He’s more intertwined with it than the ivy on Harvard.”
She snort-laughs. “I’ll let it drop for now. But I want in on the detective work.”
“If you’d be up for checking engagement and marriage announcements in the Globe archives, that would be great.”
“Absolutely.”
I text her the pictures of the articles but tell her not to jump in until I can rule out some of the possibilities with obituary searches. Dead people are easy to find online, so I’ll start there.
It’s appropriate, because the closer we get to Smitten Kitten’s identity, the more I’m dying to find out who she is.