“It’s prophesizing something,” Butch said. “Do you think that means something?”
“It’s fiction,” Charlene said, “but a lot of people thought it was real. It was an enormous bestseller in the mid-1990s.”
“Can I open it, Detective?” I asked.
“Yes, but put something on your hands first. I know your prints will be all over it, but if this book is significant, I don’t want to mess it up any more than it already is.”
“Be right back.” Charlene ran for the stairs.
We studied the book. The jacket was black with gold and white print. The title of the book filled the center of the book, with the author’s name in smaller print below. The cover design was plain and stark: no picture, just a marketing blurb about the book across the top and an endorsement at the bottom. A small tear marked one corner of the jacket, and the worn paper indicated that the book had been well used over the years. The remains of spilled coffee discolored and warped some of the pages.
“As you can see,” I said, “the book was damaged. Probably a coffee spill. Which is why it would have been removed from circulation. How or why it ended up in the basement of Town Hall is anyone’s guess.”
“I’m convinced,” Watson said, “that one day we’re going to find an intact skeleton down there.”
Charlene was soon back with a pair of white gloves, ones she used for handling rare and fragile papers. She handed them to me, and I slipped them on. I opened the book. Everyone leaned closer.
It was a common edition, nothing special that I could see. It hadn’t been signed by the author.
I flipped carefully through the book. Pages were dog-eared, paper yellowing, passages underlined. “This book’s seen a lot of use,” I said.
“By people who used a pen or pencil to highlight passages,” Bertie growled. “I’d like to get my hands on them. That was done deliberately; we can assume the coffee spill was accidental.”
“Is there anything noteworthy, do you think, about the parts that are marked?” Butch asked.
“That would need a close study,” I said, “but offhand, doesn’t look so.”
“Might this book have any particular value?” Watson asked. “Monetary, I mean.”
“I suppose it could be a special edition, although it doesn’t look like it. I can ask Theodore to check,” I said.
“Thanks.”
“We pulled it out of the basement for no reason other than it came quickly to hand. We displayed it open to the flyleaf so we could see the withdrawal record with its signatures and date stamps.”
As one, they all stared at the book. Even Charles, perched on top of a high shelf, moved closer for a better look.
Charlene sucked in a breath. “That’s it! Helena wasn’t interested in the book itself. She pulled out the withdrawal record and looked … the only word I can think of is horrified.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Now I remember.” I slowly turned to the cover.
We all leaned in. I’m sure I was holding my breath.
The little paper envelope glued to the inside of the cover was empty.
I breathed. “It’s gone.”
“What’s gone?” Butch said.
“The card,” Charlene said. “In the days before computers, libraries used paper to keep a record of who’d taken out books and when they were due.”
“I remember. I think,” Watson said.
“Can I show you another?” Charlene said.
“If you can without leaving prints.”
“My prints are all over everything,” Charlene said. “So are Lucy’s, Bertie’s—probably everyone who was in the library yesterday. This isn’t a hands-off display. We made it for people to enjoy.”
“Nevertheless, let Lucy and her gloves do it.”
I opened the next book on the stack, a history of the Civil War in North Carolina, and pulled out the card. It was almost full, dates stamped on the right column and handwritten signatures in various colors of ink on the left. The final date was November 15, 1996, and it had been signed out by one Jane Jones.
“When someone took out a book, they wrote their name here, or the librarian did it for them,” Bertie explained, “and the librarian stamped the date the book was due back. This card was then filed away as a record until the book was returned. A slip was put into the book with the due date on it as a reminder to the borrower.”
“Why would someone take the card out of that first one?” Butch asked.
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” I said.
“You’re sure there was a withdrawal slip in this book?” Watson said.
“Absolutely,” Charlene said. “That was the only reason it was part of our display.”
“Ms. Sanchez had a strong visceral reaction to seeing it,” I said. “No, wait, that’s not right. She reacted to seeing what was written on it. The card itself was exactly the same as any other.”
“Where’s this card now?” Butch asked.
Charlene, Bertie, and I glanced at one another. We shook our heads.
“The letter opener’s missing as well as the withdrawal record card from that particular book,” Watson said. “Anything else?”
I scrunched up my forehead and studied the display. I couldn’t exactly remember everything that had been in it. A few items had come from other library systems, but mainly Charlene and I had simply helped ourselves to books and other abandoned things in the town hall basement. We hadn’t had to sign anything out: nothing was of any value. It would all have been thrown out long ago, if anyone had bothered to get around to it.
“I don’t think so,” Charlene said at last.
“Me neither,” I said.
“Butch,” Watson said, “take that book into evidence. I’m not waiting for the result of the autopsy. I’m going to get divers into the marsh to look for that letter opener.”
“Good morning!”
I was so startled I squealed and jumped into the air.
“Goodness,” Bertie said, “you scared me there, Ellen.”
“Sorry. Is everything okay?” My aunt Ellen stood in the doorway, holding her loaded book bag, looking from one of us to the other. “Are you open? It’s after nine.”
“Are we open?” Bertie asked Watson.
“You’ll be late today,” he
