“I appreciate that,” the man said, giving her a wide smile.
“Kathleen, this is Ernie Kingsley,” Lita said.
Ernie Kingsley, the main investor and driving force behind the development proposal for Long Lake.
She gestured at me. “Ernie, meet Kathleen Paulson. She runs our library.”
Kingsley was a heavyset man of average height with a ruddy complexion and keen brown eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses. He had a strong handshake and a TAG Heuer stainless steel watch on his wrist. “Nice to meet you, Kathleen,” he said.
“You as well, Mr. Kingsley,” I replied.
“Tell Everett to call me,” he said to Lita. He glanced at his watch. “I need to get going. I have another meeting to get to.”
“I’ll pass on the message,” she said.
Kingsley nodded and left.
“C’mon in,” Lita said. “Would you like a cup of coffee? I would.” She moved toward the credenza where she kept a coffeemaker and several pottery mugs.
“So that’s the man who’s either the worst or the best thing that’s ever happened to this area,” I said, dropping my briefcase on one of the chairs in front of Lita’s desk.
“Yes, that’s Ernie,” she said, reaching for the coffeepot.
“What’s he like?” I asked.
She didn’t answer right away. Instead she poured two cups of coffee and handed one to me. I raised my eyebrows questioningly.
“I’m trying to think of an answer that won’t incriminate me,” she said, wrinkling her nose at me.
I smiled at her. “Never mind,” I said. “I think you’ve answered my question.”
* * *
Abigail was at the circulation desk when I got back to the library. She held up a middle-grade chapter book. “What is this?” she asked, pointing to something sticky on the front cover.
“Marshmallow Fluff,” I said. “Tommy Justason brought it back, didn’t he?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Let me look.” She turned to the computer. After a minute she smiled. “How did you know that?”
I raised an eyebrow. “It’s my librarian superpower.”
“Oh, I want one of those,” Abigail said.
“You already have one,” I said. “Writing great books is your superpower.”
She smiled as her cheeks got pink. “I hope you’re right.”
“Set it aside. I’ll talk to his mother. This is not the first time Tommy returned a sticky book. Our deal was that if it happened again he had to give me a Saturday morning of work here.”
Abigail set the book on the counter. “What are you going to make him do?” she asked.
“I thought I’d have him help me repair those two boxes of books we have in the workroom.” Tommy Justason was an eight-year-old who loved to read, something that made me very happy. But he treated books like they were disposable. His mother had paid for a chapter book that had ended up in the bathtub, two reference books that had been left in the rain and multiple graphic novels that had been run over by Tommy’s bike. “He’s not a bad kid,” I continued. “I think a lot of the time his mind is just somewhere else.”
Abigail nodded. “Let me know if I can help.”
“I will,” I said. “Thanks.”
“I almost forgot,” she said, reaching for a pad of paper next to the phone. “I have a message for you. Detective Gordon called.” She gave me a sly smile and wiggled her eyebrows at me.
“Don’t tell me he’s not bringing my supper after all,” I said.
Abigail just looked at me the way Owen did when we were having a staring contest.
I waited but she didn’t say anything. “Umm, aren’t you going to give me the message?” I asked.
“I would,” she said, “but you told me not to tell you that he’s not bringing your supper. He said to tell you he’s sorry. He has a meeting with the prosecuting attorney.” She handed me the piece of paper. “He sounded sorry.” She wiggled her eyebrows again. “I’m sure he’ll make it up to you.”
“No comment,” I said, feeling my cheeks get warm.
“I have hummus,” Abigail offered, grinning at me. I would eat pretty much anything but hummus—which she knew.
“I have sardine cat crackers in my bag,” I countered.
Abigail had once stopped at my house while I was making a batch for Owen and Hercules. “That’s a . . . powerful smell,” she’d said, blinking several times as she stood in the middle of my kitchen.
Mary came bustling behind us with an empty cart. “Crackers and dip,” she exclaimed. “Sound’s delicious. I’ll go up and put the coffee on.”
“Is she messing with us?” Abigail asked as Mary headed up the stairs.
“Probably,” I said with a grin. “But she’s also making coffee, so if she wants a sardine cracker who am I to say no?”
I was in my office, working on a list of books I wanted to buy for the children’s department with the grant the library had been awarded, when Maggie called just before five. Our tai chi class had been canceled because Oren was painting the studio space. “Are you taking a dinner break?” she asked. “I’m not making a lot of progress here and I don’t feel like going home to cook.”
Maggie didn’t do a lot of cooking, although she did make incredible pizza. However, every pot, pan and dish in her apartment would be dirty by the time it went in the oven.
“Yes, I’m taking a dinner break,” I said. Owen, who was snoozing in the middle of my desk, lifted his head when he heard me say “dinner.” “I can meet you at Eric’s in about an hour.”
“I’ll see you there,” she said.
Owen had gotten to his feet and walked over to me. He rubbed his face against the phone. I had no idea how he knew it was Maggie on the other end, but the only time he did that was when I was talking to her.
“Owen sends his love,” I said.
Maggie laughed. “Right back at him.”
Mia, who worked after school and on the weekends was at the front desk when I came downstairs, checking out a couple of teenagers with a stack of graphic novels and a reference book about the Vietnam War. One of the history teachers at the high school insisted that her students use as many books as they did online references for any essays they wrote. For some of the kids it would be the first time they’d been in the library since story time when they were four.
I left the truck in the lot and walked over to Eric’s. My timing was perfect because Maggie was just coming up the sidewalk from her studio as I got to the restaurant. I hugged her. “You smell like patchouli,” I said.
“I was in Ruby’s studio,” she said. “She was making bath salts.”
Ruby Blackthorne was the new president of the artists’ co-operative. She had multi-pierced ears, Kool-Aid–colored hair and a collection of funky T-shirts. She was also whip-smart and a talented artist, getting some much-deserved attention for her large pop-art paintings.
“You should see what she’s done to her hair,” Maggie said, picking a clump of cat hair off my jacket. It seemed pretty clear Owen had been doing some roaming around during the afternoon.
“Did she shave one side of her head again?” I asked. “Or do her bangs navy blue? I liked that.”
Mags shook her head. “No. It’s brown, light brown.” She made a motion in the air with one hand near her chin. “And she cut it about to here.”
“No lime green or neon orange?”
“No.”
“That is odd,” I said.
“That’s what I thought.” Maggie led the way into Eric’s. “Do you want to eat at the counter for a change?” she asked.
I could see two empty stools at the far end. “Sure,” I said.
Nic was working. Like Maggie and Ruby, Nic was an artist. He worked with found metal and paper and also did some photography.
“Hi, guys, what can I get you?” he asked. He was about medium height and stocky, with light brown skin and deep brown eyes.