The Unkindness of Ravens by M. Hilliard (readera ebook reader .txt) 📗

I could multitask. By putting Anne Marie in charge and riding shotgun at the reference desk, I could give our intern some helpful experience, continue my weeding project, noodle through what I had overheard, and keep a sharp eye—and ear—on what was going on in the reading room. Piece of cake.

My stomach rumbled. Cake sounded good. It was that time of afternoon and I’d missed lunch. But I had a fresh cup of tea, a protein bar stuffed in my pocket, and access to a restroom, so I shouldn’t complain. Kinsey Milhone often had it much worse.

I settled in at the desk with a scanner and pulled up the publisher websites I needed. Normally decisions on what to discard or update relied on circulation statistics, but the areas I was working on today needed a different approach. Our books on divorce and substance abuse tended to turn up in odd corners of the library or low-traffic areas of the stacks. Because we had no security system for our materials, they often left the library without benefit of check-out, only to reappear in the book drop after being returned anonymously in the dead of night. I couldn’t blame people—it was a small town and these weren’t topics anyone wanted gossiped about. No matter how much we tried to protect patron privacy, standing in the middle of a busy library waiting to check out an armload of books on addiction was bound to be noticed. I was glad so few were stolen. Still, it did mean I had to spend a little more time than usual evaluating wear and tear, and content and timeliness, as I couldn’t trust the statistics.

I was flipping through a book on divorce in New York when I found a folded article. Tucked between the endpapers was a photocopy of the front page of the village paper dated thirty-five years ago. One headline was circled: “Local Child Drowns.” I scanned the article, but didn’t recognize any names. There were some notes penciled in the margin though, and I was sure I recognized the handwriting—Joanna’s.

I glanced around. Other than a woman Anne Marie was helping, no one was nearby. I smoothed the photocopy and took a look at the things Joanna had scribbled in the margins. Most were a series of letters and numbers that seemed familiar but that I couldn’t immediately interpret. There were a few words and phrases that didn’t seem to relate to anything. I refolded the paper and slid it into my agenda. It would have to wait until I got home.

The photocopy had been in one of the books that had been sitting on my desk. I quickly flipped through the rest of that stack. Nothing. I knew Joanna had been at my desk sometime after I left on Tuesday night, because she had left me the note about the booklist. Had she been using the book and forgotten the article was there? I scanned the barcode—no recent check-outs. That didn’t mean anything. If she was thinking about divorce, she wouldn’t take the book home. She could easily stash it in the Friends’ office and use it here. Maybe the rumors about Vince and Felicity were true, and she was studying her options. She could be doing research for a story or helping someone else. She’d mentioned “other stuff going on” in her note, and that she trusted my discretion. She’d also said it was related to what we’d talked about. Little girls standing up for themselves? The connection was tenuous at best. It was also possible she had needed to slip the article out of sight quickly, and intended to retrieve it later. I needed to find out who had lingered after the meeting. Or come early, since I didn’t know what time she had left the note.

At that moment Millicent stuck her head into the reading room. She looked around as though hunting for someone. I assumed a look of bland innocence and gave her a little wave. She had her handbag and was wearing a light jacket.

“Heading home?” I asked as she approached.

“Yes. I had a few people in doing genealogy research today. You know how long that can take.”

“I do, and I have no patience for it. I’m so glad we have you, Millicent. You’re better and faster at it than any librarian I know.”

She gave me a genuine smile. Even in her seventies, Millicent was an uncommonly lovely woman. She had always seemed vaguely familiar to me, and I was sure she reminded me of an aging movie star. Of course, she was a native of Raven Hill and could be related to half the village. Hollywood or hometown, I couldn’t figure out who it was she resembled.

“Well, dear, a passion for historical research is something in the blood, I think. No amount of schooling can compare.”

There was a barely discernible edge to her voice on that last phrase. Technically, Millicent was neither a librarian nor an archivist, as she did not have an advanced degree. I’d heard Anita had been quick to point this out when she joined the board, but no one could top Millicent’s knowledge. She was something of an institution here at the library, and so she was granted the title based on ability and experience. For once, Anita was silenced.

Millicent once again looked around the reading room.

“We’ve had a busy day,” I said, “especially this morning.”

“I thought as much. People have been roaming around upstairs. I don’t like it. Not with everything that’s been going on. I know we keep those rooms unlocked as a courtesy, but I don’t think that’s wise when there’s hardly any staff in the building.”

“I know. It’s unnerving.” I thought it unlikely Millicent had caught sight of me earlier, but decided on a pre-emptive strike, and figured I could kill two birds with one stone.

“Two or three times in the last two days I’ve found people wandering around in odd places, and it’s made me wonder. Just before I