Chapter Eight
T he next morning at the library, I felt hungover, even though the strongest thing I’d drunk all week was coffee—this morning’s coffee being especially power ful. I was bewildered and humiliated.
Last night after Sam left, I had checked the library’s perimeter, testing locks and doors.
Not one of them was open. There was no sign of entry, let alone Ian’s wheelchair.
Was Sam right, and I had hallucinated the whole thing?
Yet I could close my eyes and see it all: Ian’s black hair splayed under his head, the scar on his cheek especially white and waxy.
The books had refused to let out even a murmur.
Library patrons seemed to note my air of distraction and stayed away.
One name haunted my thoughts: Beata . Could she have had anything to do with last night’s drama?
If so, I couldn’t figure out how or why.
Each time I passed through the atrium, chills rumbled through my gut.
As I’d noted last night, when my mother had visited a few weeks ago, she’d suspected Aunt Beata and Babe Hamilton were linked.
That was a possibility. But what about Lise Bloom, the stranger at the retreat center?
Some thing was oddly familiar about her, yet I was certain I’d never met her before yesterday. My urgency to find Ian intensified.
Just past noon, Lise Bloom came into the library. She stopped in the atrium to stare at the mansion’s carved wooden moldings and three-story ceiling topped with a cupola—most newcomers did. I remembered my grandmother’s warning about Beata. She could charm you into seeing whatever she wanted.
Wary but resolute, I joined her in the atrium. “You’re still in town.”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry for being so mysterious yesterday. I wanted to explain.” She pointed to Marilyn Wilfred’s portrait. “Who’s that?”
I followed her gaze to the full-length painting over the entrance to the foyer. “That’s the library’s founder.”
Marilyn stared down at us in a 1920s flapper gown.
I’d always wondered if she had some sort of magic about her.
Sometimes I swore she saw me and wrinkled her brow in warning or smiled with encouragement.
Maybe the books’ energy animated her. I didn’t know— there was still a lot about magic I was learning.
“She looks alive, doesn’t she?” Lise said. “Like she’s ready to step from the painting. As if she’s watching us.”
I examined Lise Bloom again. A tremor of energy passed between us. My Aunt Beata could appear to me as anything , I reminded myself.
I was about to prompt Lise about her “mystery” when Lalena pushed her way through the front door with Sailor on a ribbon-leash behind her. She cast a brief glance at Lise, then laid a hand on my forearm. “Josie. We have to talk.”
“Don’t mind me,” Lise said. “I’ll have a look around.” She wandered toward the conservatory.
Reluctantly, I let her go as Lalena pulled me into Old Man Thurston’s former office, now Children’s Literature.
The oak-paneled room with its immense desk might have seemed an odd choice for kids’ books, but somehow it worked.
Instead of feeling foreboding, the stately paneling was cozy.
Even the portrait of Thurston Wilfred over the mantel seemed to smile as if the town’s children were his personal offspring.
One of my favorite sights was Mona reading to a circle of toddlers, and one of my favorite sounds was the melody of circus music, kitten’s mews, and chattering kindergartners the books sang to me. Today the books were silent.
I had no time to ponder that as Lalena gestured toward the desk and perched on its edge.
“It’s Ian,” she said. “He’s still gone. It’s worse, though.” She dropped Sailor’s leash, and he trotted out, surely to find Rodney. “Sam’s asking around town about him.”
“He is?” My heart skipped a beat as I realized Sam had at least taken me seriously enough to check in on Ian.
“Why? Why is the sheriff asking about Ian?” Lalena said.
I hedged. I couldn’t tell her about seeing Ian’s body.
I had no proof it had been anything but a bad dream, and I didn’t want to freak her out.
I glanced toward the door to the atrium.
Had Ian really been lying there, lifeless?
Was he elsewhere, and I’d had some sort of vision? Or had I imagined the whole thing?
Fortunately, Lalena didn’t pause for my response. “Something must be wrong with him.” She chewed on a knuckle.
“What has Sam been asking?” I said.
She dropped her hand and turned her attention toward me. “He’s back, Sam is. Oh, Josie, here I am going on about Ian. Has Sam talked with you?”
“Not about . . . not about us.” The words felt barbed as they left my throat.
Lalena let a moment pass before speaking softly. “He’s asking if anyone’s seen Ian. That’s all. I haven’t been sleeping well, and I heard Sam knocking on Ian’s door this morning. At the café, Darla told me he’d questioned a few of the regulars.”
“You said Ian’s attitude changed at about the same time construction started at the Empress. I know I asked you before, but is it possible he recognized someone from the construction crew?”
She shrugged. “He didn’t say.”
Sailor yapped from the atrium. Chances were that Rodney was teasing him by leaping through the banister on the main staircase to the atrium floor, or instigating a chase through Popular Fiction.
“Sailor!” Lalena called from the entrance to Old Man Thurston’s office. “I’d better go get him.” She turned to me. “You’ll tell me if Sam says something, won’t you?”
I nodded. I could only hope Sam would tell me anything.
Where was Ian, anyway? The books had no answers for me, not even a hint. I didn’t know what was happening to Wilfred, to me, but my grandmother’s warning burned in my mind.
I went on a search for Lise Bloom, but she was nowhere to be found. She must have left. I poked my head into the rooms upstairs but didn’t find anyone except a high-school couple holding hands in Natural Science and Mrs. Garlington sorting sheet music in the organ room.
I slowly made my way back to the circulation desk. Something would happen; I felt it. Soon. Whatever it was, it would not be good.