Moonshadows (7 page)

“We’re quite a pair,” Janet said. “Lucy and Ethel—that’s us.”

“With that hair, you’re Lucy all right, and always getting half-baked ideas.”

“Like what?”

“Like dousing Miss Austin with water to see if she’ll melt.”

“I bet she would.” Janet frowned. “But I can’t quite see you as Ethel Mertz.”

“Why?”

“Well, then you’d have to be married to Fred. That, my dear friend, is way beneath your capabilities.”

“Hah! So far my capabilities have been less than zero. Give me another year and old Fred will start looking pretty good.”

They laughed and talked the morning away. Janet listened as Chelsea filled her in on what had happened while she was away. Nothing much, but Janet liked listening to the sound of her voice.

On Monday morning, the library welcomed Janet like a much-loved old friend. She passed through the doors and felt as if she’d been away a lifetime. In a way, she had.

Amanda Austin glanced up from her paper. “You look tired, Janet. Has this been a terrible ordeal for you?” Then she shook her head. “What a ridiculous question. Of course, it’s been terrible. Is there anything I can do?”

Stuffing her things into the locker, Janet turned to face her. “I appreciate your offer, but everything’s been taken care of.”

The older woman fanned her paper.

“Have things gone all right around here?” Janet asked.

“All right?”

“With my being gone. I know it was rough on the rest of the staff, being short-handed, I mean.”

“We’ve had more than enough work to keep us busy.” Amanda Austin pursed her lips and frowned. “What we really need is another employee, but I suppose that’s out of the question with tight budget restraints and all.” She tapped her lips lightly. “Still, it’s something to think about.”

Janet glanced at her watch when she heard the front door open. “That must be Chelsea,” she said.

Miss Austin looked at the wall clock then lowered her eyes. “Janet, when you have the time, come to my office.”

Janet nodded and turned away.

The morning passed quickly as Janet tackled the backlog of work piled on her desk. Lunch was hurried, with little time for conversation. It was well after three before she looked up and stretched her arms. The stack of work had dwindled sharply. She sighed and arched her back. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, creating ribbons of color around the circular interior, and flickered into the upper stacks where the light was dim. Except for an occasional rustle of paper, the room was quiet.

A man sat at a corner reading table. He stopped occasionally to scribble on a note pad. A few tables away, a young couple’s disagreement over something contained in the book in front of them was beginning to rise above a whisper.

The dependable Mrs. Goldman, wearing her standard green felt hat, sat in her usual chair. The old lady came to the library every weekday at precisely two-fifteen, read the
Wall Street Journal
and the
New York Times
, and left around three-thirty. Janet had never known her routine to vary more than a few minutes in either direction. Now, as if to prove a point, Mrs. Goldman folded the newspapers, placed them back into their proper racks, and reached for her fur-trimmed chesterfield. Her rubber-tipped cane leaned against the side of the lamp-table on which rested her purse. Gathering these together, she shuffled toward the door. Janet looked at the clock. It was twenty-eight minutes after three.

Hilda stood behind the counter and accepted a handful of change from some poor soul who had failed to get his books back on time. She frowned as she jingled the coins in her hand and Janet could hear the hateful thoughts running through her head:
responsible library patrons do not let books run beyond their due dates
. Yanking the small metal cashbox from a shelf under the counter, Hilda flipped open the lid and dumped in the money. She slammed the box beneath the shelf with a heavy thud. The collection was deposited annually, at the end of the year, so by now the box was pretty well full.

Deciding that this was a good time to take a break, Janet rose from her chair and entered Miss Austin’s private office.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Yes Janet. Do come in and shut the door.” She motioned to the chair in front of her desk. “Have a seat.”

Like an obedient child, Janet sat down.

Miss Austin positioned her arms on the desk and laced her fingers together. “How are you, dear? Although you look tired, you seem to be bearing up well.”

“I’m managing.”

“I know Mrs. Lancaster’s death has been hard for you. Would you like to talk about it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Nonsense, Janet. When something like this happens it’s always better not to keep it bottled up.” Her voice softened dramatically. “Tell me about your grandmother.” She puckered her lips. “Had she been ill for long?”

“She hadn’t felt well, but no, not really ill.”

“She didn’t suffer then?”

“I hope not. The doctor said her heart just gave out.”

“I guess the settling of the estate is going to be a big deal. I mean with so much money involved.”

Janet made no reply.

“I suppose the rest of the family has been summoned in for the reading of the will?”

Janet didn’t bother to remind the woman that there were no other family members. Apparently she hadn’t thought the fact important enough to remember.

“Has a date been set yet?”

“Date?”

“For the opening of the will,” she continued to probe.

Janet was surprised at the woman’s persistence. “It’s already been read,” she said finally.

“Really.”

Again Janet made no reply.

“Such an immense fortune must surely pose legal and dispensation problems. I suppose you’re now a very rich young lady and will be leaving us.” She grimaced an ugly sneer. “Were many people named in the final testament?”

Janet, feeling slightly violated, rose from the chair. “I have no intentions of leaving the library. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to get back to work. There’s still lots to do before I leave for the day, and it’s getting late.”

“Please forgive me for prying. I know I have no right. But I’m concerned—for the library—of course. Do you know if funding is to continue?”

“Of course, it will.” Janet’s voice was unusually sharp. “Grandmother was very precise in her instructions. Nothing is to change.”

“Good. Good.” The woman pursed her lips again. “Naturally, that was my only concern.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Janet said, meeting the ice-hued enameled eyes squarely, “I’ll get back to work.”

Amanda Austin nodded and turned her attention back to her desk. When she failed to make further comment, Janet left the room.

Hilda shot an accusing glance in her direction as Janet emerged from the private office. Her bitter glare missed its mark entirely, it was in fact barely noticed, but the probing conversation with Miss Austin left Janet mildly disturbed. A frown puckered her brow and remained there for the rest of the day.

At five o’clock the staff left the library together. The parking lot was located across a bricked alleyway at the far end of the building and shared space with an office complex next door. The late-autumn wind was brisk and a clear sky promised frost before morning. As they walked to their cars, Janet called goodnight to the other three. Chelsea laughed and waved. Hilda and Miss Austin offered no response.

Janet reached home. As she started up the steps, she could hear her telephone ringing. Rushing, she lifted the lid to the mailbox beside the front door, yanked out the contents, and hurried inside.

Tossing the packet of mail on the piano, she picked up the phone.

“Do you like riddles?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” the voice snapped. “Word games. Riddles. I have one for you.”

“Look,” Janet said, rubbing her brow. “Get somebody else to play your games with you. I’m too tired to be the least bit interested.”

“Oh, but you will be, I promise. Come on now, humor me and pay attention:
Riddle me thou, riddle me thee. Who did not drown at sea?”

Janet brushed the tumble of bangs and fingered back a few strands of hair.
Good lord
, she thought.

“What in the world are you talking about?”

“I was just wondering how smart you are at unraveling mysteries, finding your way though a maze—you know, like a rat. Are you smart as a rat? I have a feeling we’re going to find out.”

The caller hung up.

Janet was more annoyed than angry with this immature prankster who apparently had too much time on his hands. She decided that as long as she gave him no encouragement, he’d soon move on to a more able and receptive opponent.

I
t was almost closing time on Friday when Amanda Austin stepped out of her office. She stood in the doorway fingering the top button of her muddy-brown cardigan.

“I’ve just had a call requesting our copy of the
Middlebrook Chronicles
,” she said to no one in particular.

“That old thing,” Chelsea said. “Do we still have it?”

“I’m sure we do,” she replied.

She walked to the card file and thumbed through the out-dated books that had yet to be computerized. She plucked an index card from the drawer, squinted at the fading print and shoved the card in Hilda’s direction.

“You’ll have to swing the ladder around to the far right.” She pointed toward the ceiling, to the topmost row of books. “I think you’ll find it on that last shelf.”

Hilda’s eyes flickered up from the pile of work in front of her. She accepted the card, frowned at it, and shoved it back.

“Have someone else do it; I don’t have time. Janet’s not busy.”

“Here,” Chelsea said, “let me do it.”

Miss Austin scowled. “You’re supposed to be in the storage room checking off the new shipment that came in this morning. Besides, I didn’t ask you, I asked Hilda.”

Hilda curled her lips into a spiteful sneer. “I guess when a
certain
person owns the building, that
certain
person doesn’t have to climb a stupid ladder looking for some dusty old history book.” She started to push back from her desk.

Janet stepped across the room and snatched the card from Hilda’s fingers. “In the first place, I don’t own this building. And if I did, I wouldn’t use it as excuse to be rude. I’ll get the book.”

Amanda Austin glowered at them as if they were three unruly children before turning back to her office. Chelsea muttered something about the day being too dreary for words and returned to the stockroom to unpack books.

Reading the information on the card, Janet crossed the floor and started up the broad steps to the second level. From there she climbed the rickety stairs to the upper stacks that reached high into the domed ceiling. The neglected walkway groaned and creaked and she could feel the wood give beneath her feet. She reached for the ladder that was hooked onto a rod that ran around the curved wall.

She had to climb to the last rung of the ladder. Even from there, it was quite a stretch to reach the very top shelf. She grumbled about the gross incompetence of supposedly intelligent people—space-planners who got paid a ton of money for their so-called expertise—to engineer such an inconvenient place for books.

“If they just had to fill this space,” she muttered, “tract
lighting would’ve been good, or even plastic ivy, for heaven’s sake.”

Straining her body upward, she stood on her toes. Just as her fingertips touched the spine of the book, she shifted to one hip to get a fraction more reach. Suddenly the wooden rung splintered and collapsed beneath her weight, and her foot crashed down between the broken pieces, jarring against the rung below. Janet pitched forward and instinctively pulled back to avoid being slammed into the ladder. She clutched the sides to keep from falling and shifted all her weight to both feet, which were widely spaced on the lower rung. She shot a desperate glance over her shoulder at the fragile railing that was the only barrier to keep her from plunging headlong off the ledge. She clung to the safety of the ladder until she was able to bring herself back into balance and calm her racing heart. The book lay sprawled on the floor. Janet’s hand was still shaking when she picked it up and straightened the crumpled pages.

Miss Austin raised an eyebrow as Janet strode into her office and plopped the book on the desk. Her fear had been replaced with anger.

“We’re going to have to do something about those upper stacks,” Janet said.

Amanda Austin crossed her arms and tensed her jaw.

“Must we? And from where do you suppose the funds for such repairs shall come?”

“I don’t know, but it’s dangerous up there. Just now, a rung on that rickety old ladder snapped and
I happened to
be on it at the time
. If I’d fallen from that height, I could’ve broken my neck.”

“Now Janet, you know how you tend to overstate a situation.”

Janet clinched her fists. “Almost being killed is not exactly an overstatement. We have to make some repairs up there. I’m sure we can find the money somewhere. Holy cow, let’s have a bake sale or collect aluminum cans, or
something
.”

“We’ll see.” The older woman seemed unconcerned. “But in the future, do try to be more careful. And don’t go around advertising the fact that we have an unsafe building. After all, my dear that would not reflect well on the Lancaster name.” She unfolded her arms and once again turned her attention to the work before her.

As matters came and went in order of importance, it was evident to Janet that her safety was of little consequence to Amanda Austin, and she wondered why she wasn’t surprised. She dismissed the whole thing as just another incident that went into making up the daily particulars of her life.

That weekend Janet and Chelsea attended the Hitchcock film festival. It was two a.m. when most of the theatre crowd gathered at the SRO Coffee House across the street. Janet and Chelsea settled into a back booth and shed their coats. Janet stifled a yawn.

“Now don’t start that,” Chelsea said. “You’ll have me doing it, too.”

Before Janet could reply, a youngish Cher look-alike came to take their order. The blue-black hair reached below her waist and fell straight as a plumb line. Her mascaraed eyes peeked from beneath a hedge of thick bangs. Bronze-frosted lips, outlined in ebony, moved in a steady rhythm of popping gum.

“What can I getcha?”

“Raspberry tea,” Chelsea said

She glanced at Janet. “Two?”

Janet caught a whiff of peppermint. “Yes, thank you.”

The waitress moved away. Janet glanced around the room and recognized the figure coming through the front door. Stephen Prescott caught her eye right off, acknowledged her with a wave of his hand, and threaded himself in their direction.

“A couple of Hitchcock fans, I take it,” he said.

“Guilty.” Janet slid over. “Care to join us?”

He dropped down. “It’d be my pleasure.”

Janet pointed across the table. “Chelsea Parker, Stephen Prescott. He just moved into Middlebrook Arms.”

He raked back his dusky hair and grinned. “All dry and everything.”

“Do you usually go around wet?” Chelsea wanted to know, and flicked a glance in Janet’s direction. Janet recognized the arched brow as being a question of why she had not been told of this new development before tonight. “You didn’t tell me you had a new neighbor.”

“Maybe she didn’t think it was worth mentioning,” he said. “Besides, I’ll bet her life is so—um—convoluted, that she has a hard time keeping her social calendar straight.”

“I hardly think so,” Chelsea said. “Janet’s the most
unconvoluted
person I know. Oh, she may be a little ditzy now and then—but aren’t we all.”

He glanced at Janet as if seeking confirmation.

Janet nodded. “Actually, Chelsea’s right. I don’t keep a social calendar and I can’t remember the last time I ran into a stranger.”

Stephen laughed. “And that’s exactly what we did.” He grinned at Chelsea. “You’ll have to get her to tell you how we first met.”

Chelsea squinted at him. “You’re not from around here, are you, Mr. Prescott?”

Stephen shook his head just as “Cher” returned with the tea. She lowered her lashes and gave him her best pout.

“And what can I do for you?”

“Cappuccino?”

“Yeah, sure.”

She turned and swished away, displaying a little extra leg beneath the tight column skirt with the deep side slit.

Stephen Prescott laced his fingers together against the edge of the table.

“So tell me,” he said, “what do you two ladies do when you’re not enjoying murder and mayhem served up by the master himself?”

Chelsea lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “We’re librarians.”

“No kidding. You don’t look like any librarians I’ve ever seen.” His grin was full of mischief. “Where’s the eyeglass ribbon and the topknot with a number-two pencil stuck in it?”

Janet smirked. “At home, wrapped up in our cardigans.”

He nodded. “And I guess at your library you insist on complete quiet.”

“The only way to keep out the riffraff,” Janet said, sipping her tea. “And how about you—what do you do when you’re not attending film festivals?”

“Oh, this and that. Speaking of films, how did you two like the movies?”

“Well, at least they held my attention,” Janet said, “which is a lot more than I can say about some of the garbage out there today. Hitchcock was a genius—in my humble opinion.”

“Agreed. Which did you like the best?”

Janet frowned. “Hard to say.
To Catch a Thief
and
Spellbound
were really good, but
Notorious
was awesome.”

“You know, that’s always been one of my favorites.” He looked up as the cappuccino arrived. “Although I’m fully persuaded that Ingrid Bergman influences my thinking.”

“Oh?”

“She’s the reason for it being one of my favorites.” He picked up the steaming cup, blew into the foam then set the cup down again. He looked across the table at Chelsea. “And what about you, Miss Parker. What do you think?”

Janet turned to Chelsea and was surprised at how intently her cool, gray eyes were studying this stranger across the table from her.

“About the Bergman movie?”

Stephen nodded.

Chelsea hesitated a fraction before she spoke. “I thought the movie was typical Hitchcock,” she said, “even if it was a little far-fetched.”

Janet laughed. “Chelsea’s a pragmatist.”

“You didn’t buy the storyline—didn’t think it was believable?” he asked.

“Believable? Maybe. Probable? I doubt it.” Chelsea cradled her teacup. “You’re not married, are you, Mr. Prescott?”

“No. But what’s—”

“Just proves my point,” she said. “I mean, do you really think a woman could marry one man when she’s in love with another one? Do you really believe that?”

“Maybe,” he said. “It depends on the cause; to balance the scales, so to speak. People do what they have to do. They may not like it, but they do it just the same.”

Chelsea frowned. “Could you do that, Mr. Prescott?” she asked. “Pretend to be something you’re not, I mean.”

Stephen Prescott shrugged his shoulders. “That’s not the point,” he said and sipped from his cup. “It was Bergman’s acting that was so convincing. We knew, because she made us know, how much she hated doing what she had to do.”

Janet laughed. “You take your movies seriously, don’t you?”

“I take a lot of things seriously, movies just being one of them.”

“What else?” Chelsea asked. “What else do you take seriously?”

Janet kicked her under the table.

Undaunted, Chelsea merely cocked a golden brow and gave her a sweet
I’m-helping-you-all-I-can
smile.

Even though he seemed oblivious to the shenanigans going on around him, Janet had a feeling that Stephen Prescott was laughing on the inside.

He sipped his cappuccino. “Well, for one, pride in one’s work. Do the job assigned to you, and do it to the best of your ability.”

“What if it’s a crappy job?” Janet said. “Something you hate doing.”

“Do it anyway and don’t grouse. Something better will come along—it always does.”

“Have you had any of those jobs?” Chelsea asked. “Crappy, I mean.”

He laughed. “More than I can count.”

“And something better always came along?”

“Chelsea—”

“I’m sorry, Janet,” Chelsea said. “But you know how I sometimes I get carried away with curiosity.”

Janet yawned and glanced at her watch.

“That’s your second yawn,” Chelsea said. “Fun’s over for tonight.”

“Can I give you ladies a lift?”

“We came in my car,” Chelsea said.

He glanced at Janet. “Since we’re both going in the same direction, how about you?”

“If you’re sure you don’t mind.” She looked at Chelsea. “It would save you from going out of your way, it’s awfully late.”

Chelsea frowned. “Maybe you’d better come with me.”

“If you’re worried about her safety,” Stephen said. “I promise to drive carefully and deliver her to her destination in the same condition you see her now—unless she drops completely off before then, in which case I’ll prop her up by her front door and trust her to the arms of Morpheus.”

Janet laughed as Chelsea’s eyes—usually soft and compassionate—narrowed and pierced into Stephen’s. She seemed to be giving his threat serious consideration.