Лори Касс - Lending А Paw

“We’re not going to sell art,” Stephen said. “Not our purview.”

“Agreed. The artist’s contact information will be printed on a card underneath. We could use the main hallway. It’ll bring people into the library and give our regulars something new.”

He made a “hmm” noise. Wavering. Definitely wavering.

“After all,” I said, “our mission statement mentions cultural enrichment. What better way for patrons to be introduced to art than to see the work of local artists displayed at their library? At the old library, there wasn’t room, but we could use the entire main hallway.”

“The long-term benefits could be significant,” Stephen said slowly.

Yes! I kept my smile small and my fist-thrust in my pants pocket.

“However, the work involved could overshadow those benefits.” He toyed with his glasses. “Your hours have increased substantially over the last year due to your efforts to champion the bookmobile.”

“But I’m salaried,” I said quickly. “It doesn’t cost the library any extra. And I’m glad to do it, I really am.”

He made another “hmm” noise. This one was harder to decipher.

“What if I talk to some of the gallery owners in town,” I offered. “See if they’re willing to help. They select the art, I check to make sure the art’s suitable, the galleries get agreements from the artists to be part of the show, they move the art up here, and I help them hang it. Hardly any work at all.”

Stephen rubbed his eyes. “I don’t have the energy to argue. Keep me informed, is all I ask.”

“I . . . are you sure?”

He was already back to studying his computer monitor. “Check about insurance. And don’t hand out any front-door keys.”

“No, of course not.” I went to the door and turned. “Stephen?”

“Yes?”

I wanted to ask him what was bothering him, wanted to say if he needed to talk about something, about anything, that I could be trusted. That I could be his friend. “Is there anything I can do for you?” I finally asked.

“No, thank you,” he said, chiseling the boundary line into stone.

There was nothing to do but leave. So I did.

• • •

I spent the next couple of hours shuffling spreadsheets and databases, printing reports, and checking bookmobile projections against reality. Far too early to tell, of course, but it did my heart good to see that, on a per-stop basis, my plucked-out-of-thin-air estimates of patrons and materials checked out were low.

I smiled at the nice numbers, then pulled out the phone book and picked up the phone.

“Grice residence.”

This time the female voice had a French accent. Or what I thought was a French accent. Could have been Swiss, for all I knew. Or Belgian. Not that it mattered; I needed to get through her to Caroline. “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Grice about showing some artwork from the Lakeview Gallery.”

“Your name, please?”

“Minnie Hamilton. I’m assistant director at the library.”

“One moment.”

I hummed my own hold music while I waited. Though in my appeal to Stephen I’d said I’d talk to gallery owners in the plural, I hadn’t really meant it. One would be plenty, if only I could convince her.

“Miss Hamilton, this is Caroline Grice. We speak again.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I put a smile in my voice and started my spiel. I was only halfway through when Caroline jumped in.

“Tell me if I’m understanding correctly. The library will display artwork from the gallery; no art will be sold by the library. We obtain the artists’ agreement and select the artwork, which you will need to approve. We deliver the artwork and remove it when the show is over. We will add the library to our liability insurance for the duration of the show.”

“That’s it exactly.” I was about to launch into an apology for all the work this would cause. To apologize for the short notice, but that I hoped we could work out a date to meet within the next week and—

“The selections can be made today,” she said. “At some point tomorrow I daresay I’ll have contacted all the artists. Correct?”

I blinked. The speed of light had nothing on Caroline Grice. She suggested we meet in two days to formalize the details. I agreed, then hung up and went to get a celebratory soda.

“What’s the matter?” Josh was loading his cargo pants with bags of corn chips. “You look funny.”

“I am funny,” I said. “Did I ever tell you the one about the—”

“You’ve told me all your jokes.” He ripped open a bag of chips. “You know, has anyone ever told you that they’re all kind of dumb?”

“Humor is in the ear of the beholder.” I ran a dollar bill into the machine.

“Minnie, there you are!” One of the clerks rushed in. “Can you work the front desk for half an hour? My son’s car won’t start and he needs a ride to work. I’m really sorry, but—”

“Go.” I waved her away. “Don’t worry about it.”

I headed for the doorway, but Josh called me back. “Hey, Min. You forgot your pop.” He pointed at the machine.

No food or drinks were allowed at the front counter, so I said, “Consider it a gift.”

He grinned. “You’re all right. I don’t care what the rest of them say—you’re not so bad.”

I rolled my eyes and headed out.

• • •

Time spent at the front desk was always interesting. There were returns to sort, phone calls to take, and patrons to direct. But my favorite thing to do was checking out books. Seeing what people wanted to take home to read, watch, and listen to never got old. There were times, of course, when I wanted to recommend other books.

Because Mrs. Garver didn’t really need another book about the value of collectibles. What she needed was a book on organizing. And Jim Kittle didn’t really need to read another let’s-do-in-all-the-bad-guys thriller. He’d be better off if he’d read through a stack of romances and learned how women see the world.

A tall fiftyish man placed a stack of books on the counter. The stack was so high I couldn’t see over the top of it. “Wow,” I said, smiling, “I wish I had that much time to read. You know we only have a two-week checkout, right?”

“Yes.” His tone was almost curt as he handed me his library card.

The scanner beeped when I aimed it at the card. I glanced at the computer screen. “Looks like you have a number of books out already. Not due until next week, though, so you have some time.”

“I put them in the slot,” he said.

“Oh.” I scanned the titles. The Name of the Rose. Gone with the Wind. “. . . And Ladies of the Club.” All books that were hundreds of pages long. “Well, I hope you enjoyed them. Those are—” I stopped short as I noticed the man’s name. Bill D’Arcy. This was the guy Rafe had mentioned as a possible suspect. The one who went to the diner but kept to himself.

Mr. D’Arcy started tapping the granite counter with his fingernails.

Oookay. I took the top book— Moby-Dick —and opened the front cover to scan the tag. “You know,” I said, “this is the only book I ever used Cliff’s Notes for. Just couldn’t get through it. I keep thinking about trying it again, but somehow I haven’t made time.” I laughed.

Bill D’Arcy didn’t.

Next book down was Anna Karenina . “I always cry when I read this book. Matter of fact, I think I cry when I read anything by Tolstoy. I wonder what he was like in person. Do you ever wonder if he had a sense of humor?”

No comment.

I checked out 11/22/63 and The Historian , said a little something about each, and scored exactly zero responses from Bill D’Arcy. Not that I was a brilliant conversationalist, but the guy could have at least grunted a response or two. As an interrogator, I had a lot to learn. “You’re all set,” I said, pushing the stack over to him. “Good for two weeks.”