Chapter Twenty-two
R oz greeted me at the library’s service entrance, where I’d been hoping to sneak in. She must have been lying in wait. “Are you all right?” she asked, genuine concern in her voice.
Word about my situation had already got around.
Someone might have seen the sheriff’s SUV last night with its lights flashing and even spotted my form in the its back seat.
From there, it would have taken a quick call to Roz in the morning to double-check that I wasn’t at the library, then a tap into Wilfred’s vast intelligence network, which included operatives throughout the county.
I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s uncle’s neighbor was a janitor at the detention center.
Behind Roz, the books murmured a soothing welcome, as calming as bath water.
“Give me half an hour for a shower and a change of clothing, and I’ll be down,” I said. I wouldn’t mind grab bing a sandwich, either. Even if the jail’s powdered scrambled eggs and cold toast had tempted me, I couldn’t eat my breakfast.
When I reemerged into the library, clean but blearyeyed, a welcoming committee of library regulars greeted me.
“Hello, jailbird,” Duke said. He’d clearly left in the middle of a job—something greasy, too, although his hair still wore its crisp Brylcreemed wave.
“You’ll find prison more comfortable than jail,” Desmond said. Rumor had it he had personal experience with the justice system, but until now had never acknowledged it publicly. “But don’t mess with the tattoos. Had a buddy who got a terrible infection.”
“Who’s to say I’m going to prison?” I said. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Mrs. Garlington stepped forward, a sheaf of sheet music under one arm. “Honey, you look terrible. I’ll have Darla send up something from the café.”
Roz’s earlier concern vanished, and she regarded me with narrowed eyes. “You could have let me know you wouldn’t be here. I had to open up the library myself when I heard patrons pounding on the kitchen door. I made coffee, cleared out the book return, unlocked the—”
“Stop!” I said. “Just let me through to Circulation, please.”
“Unacceptable,” came a voice from the rear. Wanda.
I screwed my eyes shut and opened them again. She was still there. I was not up for this.
“Clearly and completely.” The gathering parted to make way for her. “Wilfred does not need a suspected killer running its library. The materials in the children’s room are bad enough, but we will not have our residents exposed to a murderous witch with—”
“A what?” I said.
“Just because someone’s been called in once or twice doesn’t mean—” Desmond started.
Once or twice? “It was a mistake,” I said. “They know it. They released me, see?”
Wanda folded her arms over her chest. “Police don’t arrest people for nothing. You could be back in lock-up by dinner.”
Roz cleared the way to my side. “Everyone, go back to whatever you were doing. Josie needs to get to work.”
“I’ll see you at the trustees’ meeting tonight,” Wanda said. “We’ll put this to rest once and for all.”
My head hurt. I hadn’t prepared a thing for the trustees’ meeting.
I’d have to rely on the trustees’ common sense to deal with Wanda.
I let Roz lead me to the circulation desk, where I fell into my chair.
My instinct was to hide upstairs, but I wouldn’t let this situation get me down—or at least, I wouldn’t show it.
“Sam arrested you, did he?” Roz’s voice was concerned and soft. Also borderline nosy. “That couldn’t have been easy.”
I raised my eyes to hers. “None of it was easy, and the sooner it’s cleared up, the better.”
She read my tone and retreated to the conservatory to work on her manuscript.
My next move was clear. I didn’t even hesitate. I had a hunch I knew who the body in the burn circle was. Once I confirmed it, I’d simply need to find out who killed him, and why. All with a rival witch breathing down my back.
I’d hoped to have a moment alone at the circulation desk, but it wasn’t to be—at least, not until Roz took over at noon.
Instead, Circulation was crowded with patrons, many of them brand new to the library and clutch ing random books they’d grabbed from the shelves simply to have the opportunity for face time with someone recently arrested for murder. Me.
A book on budgie raising twittered under the arm of a pimple-faced boy who stared baldly at me. Building and Detailing Model Aircraft whispered “choose me” in my ear.
“Raising budgies, are you?” I asked.
“Uh-huh,” the boy replied, unable to tear his gaze from my face. What did he think he’d see? Hatchet scars?
“The library has a great collection of books on other hobbies, too, like”—I raised my eyes, as if searching my brain—“building model airplanes.”
The boy’s attention snapped from pondering murder to what I’d just said. “No kidding?”
“Upstairs, at the end of the hall on your right.” I pointed to the book under his arm. “You can leave that here.”
He dropped the book on my desk—it landed with happy chirping—and scampered out. One down, and, judging from the line that had formed, several dozen to go. I groaned silently.
“Stay to the right, please,” I said. “Let people come in if they want to browse New Releases.”
Half the crowd moved to the right to get a private audience with me, however brief, and half dispersed to pretend to scan new releases.
After an hour of fielding questions about books patrons didn’t actually want to read, questions they’d made up simply to look me over, I’d had enough.
I stood. “Thank you, everyone, for coming in today. My guess is some of you might not be here to use the library, but instead want to see me. You heard I was arrested last night.”
Silence greeted me, but I’d definitely captured their attention.
“Let me give you the story firsthand. After that, I have work to do, and I’d like people who are simply curious to go home. Do we have an agreement?”
Slowly, heads nodded through the crowd. A few people dropped their randomly fetched books on nearby shelves.
“Last night, late, Sam Wilfred arrested me for the murder of Ian Penclosa. He said someone had seen me going into the woods, and later an anonymous caller reported a burnt body near where I was spotted.”
Ooh s and aah s spread through Circulation and into the atrium. A few people nudged ahead for a better position.
“It’s no secret that I’ve been looking for Ian, but it wasn’t to kill him.” To my horror, I was getting choked up. I paused to calm my breathing. “And, thankfully, Ian is still alive. So I was released.” I let out a long breath.
The crowd froze for a moment, taking this all in. Then, someone spoke. “That doesn’t leave you off the hook. By your own admission, you were hanging out in the woods.”
“Plus,” an older man said, “there’s still a body.”
“I’m not certain who was found in the woods or how and why he died. I had nothing to do with it,” I said. “I want to know as much you do—more, really.”
A mother took a long look at me, then pulled in her school-aged daughter close. “Come on, honey. We’re go ing home.” She shot me an accusatory glance and left.
“What if the dead guy is someone you’ve been seen with?” a man asked. He leaned against a shelf, arms folded. I remembered him checking out a series of automotive repair manuals last spring.
“You mean, what if it’s Tyrone Beaudrie?” I asked. I, too, had the same suspicion. “Has anyone seen him lately?”
“You were looking for him,” Ruth Littlewood said. I hadn’t noticed her come in.
“I was. Yes. And I didn’t find him.”
“He wasn’t at the café this morning,” someone said.
“Or at the Empress,” someone else added. “I heard some of his crew complaining about needing him. He was a no-show.”
I pondered this only a split second before I asked, “Ian. Where is he?”