I held up a hand. “I’m sorry. This has kind of become my pet project, too.”
Detective Webster shook her head. “You don’t need to apologize. It’s nice to meet someone else who has a love of history.”
I gestured toward the stairs. “I’ll get you set up.”
“I’ll call you when I know more about your car,” Marcus said.
She nodded. “Thank you.”
I took the detective up to the workroom, turned on the computer and showed her the simple cataloging system Mia and I were using to keep track of the images.
“I’ll poke my head in later,” I said. “If you have any problems I’ll either be in my office, which is the first door at the top of the stairs, or I’ll be downstairs. And any of the other staff members can help you.”
She smiled again. “Thank you so much, Kathleen.”
“You and Eddie Sweeney are cousins, aren’t you?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yes, we are. How did you know?”
“I saw a photograph of you with him somewhere. And you have the same smile.”
The smile got larger. “I’m guessing you know Roma Davidson, then,” she said.
“She’s one of my closest friends.”
Her gaze was already being pulled to the waiting computer screen. “Everyone who knows Eddie is hoping for a happily-ever-after ending there,” she said.
I nodded. “So is pretty much everyone who knows Roma.” I gestured at the computer. “I’ll let you get started.”
Marcus was waiting for me downstairs. “Susan said you had a problem with the lights on the tree,” he said.
“A short, which is how we found out about the defective circuit breaker,” I said. I had the urge to reach over and straighten his tie, but there were a lot of people around, so I put my hands in my pockets instead. “Detective Webster seems nice.”
He smiled, shaking his head at the same time. “I know you know who she is, Kathleen.”
“Did she help you?”
“No comment,” he said, adjusting the scarf at his neck. “I need to get going. Promise me you won’t question her.”
I held up three fingers. “I promise I won’t question her,” I said solemnly. “Librarian’s honor.”
“There’s no such thing as librarian’s honor,” he said, fastening the buttons of his coat.
“Yes, there is,” I said, trying not to grin too widely at him. “It’s part of our oath along with promising to shush people and to read a book a day.”
He shook his head. “I’ll see you later.”
I waggled my fingers good-bye at him.
Lita called about half an hour later. “Did Larry make it yet?” she asked.
“He did, thank you,” I said. “He’s almost finished.”
“Great,” she said. “Do you have a minute to talk about Reading Buddies?”
“I do,” I said, perching on the edge of my desk because Hercules still had my desk chair.
“You know I sent all the refund checks out.”
“I do. And I know you got some of them back.”
“All of them,” Lita said.
“What?” I asked. I had to have heard her wrong.
“Every single one of them has been returned, several with a second check as a donation.”
I had to swallow the lump at the back of my throat before I could speak. “I . . . I don’t know what to say,” I said.
On the other end of the phone, Lita laughed. “I do,” she said. “I’m really glad you decided to stay.” She gave me the total so far. “Can you make the program work with that?”
“Yes,” I said. It would be tight after we’d paid the expenses from the fundraiser, but Abigail and I could be creative.
“I’ll let Everett know,” she said. “Good job, Kathleen.”
I hung up the phone and looked over at Hercules. “I love this place,” I said.
“Mrrr,” he agreed before going back to his nap.
I went back downstairs and did a quick tour of the main floor. Abigail and I had put together half a dozen different exhibits about rare books—including our predictions on which current bestsellers we thought might be collectors’ items one day—and we’d decided to leave them out for a few more days. Oren Kenyon came in as I was rubbing fingerprints off the front of a display case with the edge of my sweater.
“Hello, Kathleen,” he said, pulling off his heavy woolen hat, which made his gray-blond hair stand up all over his head. He reached in the pocket of his jacket and handed me a folded chamois. “Try this.”
I took the square of sheepskin and made quick work of the smudges on the glass-fronted case. “Thanks,” I said, handing it back.
He tucked the chamois in his pocket again. Then he looked around the space, and a smile spread across his face. “I spent a lot of time here when I was a boy. It’s one of my favorite places in town.”
“Me too,” I said, smiling at him.
“I’m glad that children still come here. I’m glad that you came up with the Reading Buddies program. So, this is for you.” He put his hand in his other jacket pocket, pulled out an envelope and held it out to me.
“Oren, what is this?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure I knew. I recognized the envelope. It had come from the bank down the street.
“Open it please,” he said.
The flap of the envelope wasn’t sealed, so it only took a moment to pull out the check I’d guessed was inside. “Oh my word,” I said softly when I saw the amount.
“Before you say you can’t take it, you should know I wouldn’t have that money if it weren’t for you.”
I looked blankly at him.
Oren shifted from one foot to the other. “Kathleen, do you remember the party for the library’s one hundredth birthday?”
I nodded. It had been a gorgeous, warm day this past spring. The entire town had turned out to celebrate the renovations to the one-hundred-year-old Carnegie Library.
“What does the library’s centennial have to do with this check?” I asked.
“My father’s sculptures were on display here.”
Oren’s late father, Karl Kenyon, had been a jack-of-all-trades, just like his son, but what he’d really wanted to be was an artist. Karl had created some incredible metal sculptures. I’d seen them for the first time in Oren’s workshop, just a few months after I arrived in Mayville Heights, and I’d been awestruck at the man’s talent. Oren had agreed to let us showcase some of his father’s pieces during the celebrations at the library. People had been amazed at the huge metal eagle, with a wingspan of over six feet, soaring over the computer room. I smiled at the memory. That had been a good day.
“The curator of the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago was here the day after the celebration. She was on vacation with her family. She wants to put two of my father’s sculptures in an exhibit in the spring.”
“Oren, that’s wonderful,” I said, grinning at him. I would have hugged him, but we weren’t those kind of friends and I didn’t want to make him any more uncomfortable than he already seemed.
“That check is the deposit on what they’re going to pay me.” His fingers played with the knitted hat in his hands. “I want it to go to the Reading Buddies program, Kathleen. My father’s art wouldn’t be getting seen by people if you hadn’t convinced me to let you put it on display here.” He looked around again. “And who knows what would have happened to this building and all the other programs if you hadn’t been here?”
I’d been hired to supervise the renovation and upgrading of the library for its hundredth birthday. A few months ago I’d signed a new contract with the library board to stay on as head librarian. Even though I’d ended up in town because I was running away from my life in Boston, Mayville Heights had become home.