Another short silence filled the phone. “Yes,” I said quietly. “I know.” And I did. Ash had told me many times how hard Inwood worked and how badly they needed another experienced detective. “I’m sorry I bothered you.”
The detective sighed again. “Ms. Hamilton, I’m the one who should apologize. I shouldn’t have raised my voice.”
“And I shouldn’t have bothered you about something like this.”
“Please believe that we are working very hard to build a case for the arrest of Mr. Lacombe’s killer,” Detective Inwood said. “And please believe me when I say that I can’t say any more.”
I half smiled. “All avenues of investigation . . .”
He picked up the end of the phrase he’d told me many times. “Are being explored. Thank you for the call, Ms. Hamilton,” he said. “I do appreciate your willingness to assist our office.”
“Only maybe not quite so often?” I asked, but he’d already gone. “Just as well,” I muttered, spinning my chair around to sit. As I flopped down, once again I had the thought that I was missing something, that I wasn’t looking at something the right way, wasn’t considering the right angle, wasn’t remembering something critical, wasn’t remembering . . .
Jennifer.
Not fifteen minutes earlier I’d vowed to talk to her that very day. Before I could convince myself that I was too busy, I stood and headed up the stairs to her office. There was no time like the present.
All the way up the stairs, I tried to come up with a way to broach the subject. The knee-jerk “Did you know Mitchell Koyne won’t set foot in this place until you’re gone” didn’t work for a number of reasons. “I’m not sure I agree with you one hundred percent about the changes you’ve been making” was too vague and a little wishy-washy.
When I reached the second floor, a solid plan still hadn’t materialized. “Won’t be the first time,” I muttered to myself, and knocked on the doorjamb of Jennifer’s office.
She was sitting at her large desk, staring fixedly at the computer monitor. Either she was ignoring me or hadn’t heard my knock. I was trying to figure out which it was, when I suddenly noticed that though her redecorated office didn’t fit in Chilson, it did match something. It matched her.
Jennifer suddenly looked up. “Minnie,” she said. “Just the person I wanted to see.”
“I am?” The back of my neck stiffened even as I tried to relax. Because surely there was some reasonable reason that she wanted to see me. Maybe she wanted my opinion on the best place to eat. Or a favorite place to watch the sunset. Or—
“You’re here to present today’s update, correct?”
It took everything in me not to gape at her like a hooked fish. The daily update. I’d forgotten all about it. Completely and totally forgotten. But before I could panic and run, a stroke of genius burst into my brain, saving me from doom. “Since you haven’t given me parameters,” I said smoothly, “I thought we could talk about budgets this time. Have you had a chance to study the revised bookmobile budget I sent last week?”
“Next on my list,” she said just as smoothly, leaving me to wonder if she was making up stuff as much as I was. She leaned forward, put her elbows on the desk, and rested her chin on her fingertips. “In the future, I’d prefer to get your daily reports late in the afternoon. That will give me time to make corrections if we’re going in the wrong direction.”
It seemed ridiculous to me. After all, how wrong a direction could a small library possibly go in one day? But I nodded and kept my thoughts—and facial expressions—to myself.
“So,” she said. “What else do you have to report?”
Right then and there, I decided to make my report full of the things I wanted her to know. If she wanted something different, she’d have to tell me. “Well,” I said cheerfully, “this morning . . .” And I launched into stories of the little things that filled our days. The sad things: the stoic bravery of an elderly woman who had asked for books about dealing with a spouse’s death. The inspirational things: a teenager who’d asked for advice on how to get accepted into law school. And the funny things: how Reva Shomin’s youngest had wanted to take home a stack of books taller than he was.
Jennifer’s fingertips started to tap together faster and faster, so I wrapped up my tales with a few facts about the numbers of books checked out and computer use. These were numbers I’d always studied every single day; I didn’t need an update duty to force me to look at data.
Finally, I said, “So the current checkout trends are down, but that’s still in line with averages over the past years. The only checkout numbers up are the bookmobile’s.”
“Interesting,” Jennifer said.
At least that’s what she said, but I wasn’t sure she actually meant it. I suddenly had a sneaking suspicion that she was well aware of the numbers and was just testing my knowledge. Anger flared, but I did my best to tamp it down. Suspicion was not anything close to proof. Just ask Detective Inwood.
“There’s one other thing,” I said. “There have been a number of patrons who have told me they aren’t interested in visiting the library any longer. I wondered if you might have some opinions about that.”
“Me?” Jennifer’s eyebrows went up. “It’s your responsibility to communicate patron discontent to me. You should be explaining the whys to me, not asking for an explanation yourself.”
My polite smile grew fixed. “Right. I have a few ideas about that. For instance—”
“Hold that thought.” Jennifer pointed a finger at me. “I want to run this past you before the board makes its final decision. As I’m sure you know, there are a number of rare books owned by this library that haven’t been viewed in years. My proposal is to increase revenues by selling off a number of them.”
“You . . . what?”
“There’s no reason to hang on to volumes that aren’t being accessed by the public,” she said in a “Duh” tone of voice. “Why should we allocate shelf space for books that haven’t been opened in three years?”
I could think of all sorts of reasons. Jennifer, however, clearly wasn’t interested in hearing anything I had to say.
“I’ve talked to each of the board members individually,” she went on, “and I’m confident a majority favors moving in this direction. According to my calculations, selling off the unused volumes will raise nearly enough revenue to pay for our new software. Providential, wouldn’t you say?”
What I wanted to say wasn’t fit to be heard by human ears. My mouth opened and shut a few times and I finally asked, “When will the board decide?” Maybe I could talk to Otis, the board president. Call the vice president. Cling to the feet of the board treasurer and beg her not to sell our irreplaceable assets in exchange for a system we didn’t need.
“Tuesday. I’ve called a special meeting.” She smiled with clear satisfaction. “I’ll need your help to move into action afterward.”
I couldn’t find it in me to say a single word that wouldn’t create a potentially dangerous situation for one or both of us, so I simply nodded. My thoughts the first steps back down the stairs were full of internal shouting.
What? How in the name of all that is holy could she think this makes sense? We’d be like a museum selling artwork! What is she thinking? This is nuts!
After a few more steps, the shrieking thoughts started to calm down to a manageable level, but it wasn’t until I reached the landing and made the U-turn that would take me to the main floor that I understood the impact of what Jennifer had told me.
She had the library board’s support.