time getting to know the layout of the library, what we have available and familiarize yourself with our computer system. I believe you said you had used something similar in your last position.”
Blanche began to say yes, but was cut off and sent on her way with a flick of Ester’s hand and calling over her shoulder, “Let me know if you have any questions. I’ll be re-stamping all the books that came in this morning.” The next couple of hours just flew by as she inspected the rows of books and wandered the library from top to bottom. She noted that a steady stream of patrons had come and gone with some older people settled into the cozy chairs either reading the paper or sleeping, in some cases. At 3:00 p.m. she excused herself and informed Ester that she'd be back in half an hour after she'd finished her lunch.
As she exited the building and descended the yellow highlighted steps she could hear children laughing and playing, she followed the direction of the noise. Turning the corner on Wilson Drive she could see a group of small children running and playing in and near a fountain. Water sprayed from the white, marble fountain that graced the center of the vibrant little park, arching high into the air coming back to earth in a torrent of splashes at the base. Trusting parents sat idly by talking in small clusters as the children welcomed the cool water on their heads and tanned bodies.
“Just the place for lunch,” she thought. Sitting on the edge of a nearby fountain, Blanche opened the brown paper bag she had hidden away in her purse and pulled out the peanut butter and jelly sandwich that her landlady, Mrs. Carmichael, had made for her that morning, insisting that the homemade jam would be the best she had ever tasted. The spray from the fountain felt good as it acted to nullify some of the humidity. Blanche sat and enjoyed the beauty of the day and the children as they jumped into the fountain only to find that the water was much colder than they had anticipated. Her life perhaps was taking a turn for the better as she thought about her new job and home, as it was.
Miss Caroline Carmichael was a direct descendant of Jefferson Davis of Civil War fame, she was Southern through and through. In her late sixties, she was prim and proper but ran Caroline’s Bed and Breakfast with an iron fist. Insisting that everyone get up and to the breakfast table by 7:00 a.m. “Because there would be nothing to eat any later.” Her home, now business, had been handed down from generation to generation and she was the sole heir after her brother had passed away the previous year from pneumonia, but she was quite sure it was the smuggled Cuban cigars that killed him. Never married, Caroline preferred to spend her days fussing over her guests and making ‘good’ food. Her fruit salad was the talk of the town or at least to hear her tell it, it was.
“You know the secret is to slice the apples just so and to add a bit of walnut.” She had given this little gem away to Blanche on their first night together around the dinner table.
The house really was very nice with all the Southern charm one might expect from an older Georgian style home. Large front porch complete with swing for two, bedrooms with canopy beds and large mahogany headboards. Only drawback was the one bathroom per three rooms so some sort of schedule was available unless you could negotiate a better deal with the other guests. At the moment the B amp;B was not full, just too hot for most people to do any traveling. Blanche thought the rooms were certainly reasonable and were available either by the day or month. Blanche had decided to give her a month's rent in anticipation that she could find a condo or something more suited to her lifestyle.
As long as the food was good, the neighbors quiet and the bus not too far away it would do nicely for now. As she pushed her tongue under the bread lodged on the roof of her mouth and carefully wiped at the corners with a small napkin, that had been thoughtfully included in her bag, she had to admit, most likely, this was by far the best peanut butter sandwich she had ever eaten.
CHAPTER TWO
Overhead the flag rippled in the wind as he surged forward; keeping his balance, step after step, getting closer to home and safety. His rifle slung over his shoulder must have weighed a hundred pounds and was gaining weight with each labored footstep. Images of Sarah by the fire knitting, her beaming face changing with the flames as shadows danced on her image. Up ahead he could not yet see the cabin but smoke was rising where the cabin should be. His heart raced, the anticipation of holding his Sarah overwhelming as he moved, each step more agonizing than the prior. The battle had been hard fought but ultimately a defeat, sending the survivors scattering for home or worse. His mind’s eye pictured the reunion with his beautiful bride, her full breasts crushed to his chest, her arms pulling him close, their lips desperately seeking each other, and then he saw it — a flash of blue from his right, moving quickly. He parried to his left pulling the flag down toward the assailant to act as a weapon and shield but it was too late. He felt the tip of the blade enter his ribs, burning and sharp. Blood trickled from his lip as he fell, his face pressed against the cold earth and in the distance he could hear his Sarah calling…
“Seymour, Mr. Wood,” a pause, “Mr. Wood, are you with us? Will someone nudge Seymour so he can join the discussion?” the instructor said.
Seymour quickly jumped to life following the jab in the ribs from a well-aimed pencil. His sun bleached, course hair matted a little closer to the left side of his head where he’d had it pressed against the desktop. The corner of his mouth was moist but thankfully no saliva was running down his chin. Laughter filled the room as the battle weary soldier realized what had happened.
“Mr. Wood, are you with us now?”
“Oh yeah, Mrs. Wild, I’m really sorry,” somewhat slurring his words, as he tried to regain his consciousness.
“Okay good, let‘s move along. Who can tell me what it was about Ted Bundy that made him so successful as a serial killer? Anyone have an idea?” she said moving back to the whiteboard, marker in hand.
Seymour Wood, 24, although awake, still didn’t have his mind in the game. The long hours helping his mom run their small farm, days taking summer courses and the occasional night at the library were taking their toll. He had to admit the little power nap he’d just had did make him feel better and as he tried to insert himself into the discussion he could feel his second wind kicking in. He really was enjoying the classes he’d selected for the condensed summer schedule. Only two years into his major, he was a few years older than most of the other students, but the years following his dad’s death had been spent just trying to make ends meet and keeping the family farm from bankruptcy. Things were a bit better now. His mother had found a hired hand that was reliable and able to lighten the load, which freed up the time Seymour needed to begin his education. Criminology had always been of particular interest to Seymour. Old Dragnet and Hawaii Five-0 reruns, CSI, and others had filled his young mind with images of busting down doors, high-speed chases and the 'collar'.
Ultimately he wanted to work with the FBI, CIA or GBI, but was happy just to have the part time job with the local library for now. Great job for a student, quiet, not much to do once the books were shelved and the tables and chairs straightened. He even managed to get a few hours every shift to work on his studies. Looking at his watch he mentally calculated how many hours he had before work and what he had to get done before then.
The balance of the class period lapsed without any further incidents. Seymour stood and stretched his frame, bending right then left and a couple toe touches for good measure just to get the kinks out. He stood six feet tall, was not overly muscular but toned, with sleek, well-defined muscles; his dad said he was ‘wiry’. Hours on the basketball and racquetball courts not to mention the unending hours on the farm slinging bales and pulling weeds helped to keep his physique in top form. This had not gone unnoticed by the young co-eds that blushed and giggled when they saw him coming down the hall. Girls had been a bit of an enigma for Seymour, sure he’d had a few girlfriends over the years but the commitment level required in most cases was more than he could give, so he, for the most part, just tried to ignore them.
He’d been raised with Southern gentleman values, respected women, tried to see them as an equal partner in all respects, academically, intellectually, and so on. This was not to say that he did not find the feminine form appealing, on the contrary, he had days when he could think of nothing else, however, he did find it odd that he often found himself thinking and daydreaming more about the instructors and administrative women rather than the young, nubile bimbets bouncing about campus. In either case, he generally kept his distance in an effort to focus on his studies, after all tuition was expensive and his funds were limited.
Seymour was a likable character and had plenty of friends of both sexes; he was quick on his feet with always something witty or insightful to say and didn’t mind poking fun, even if the finger was pointed directly at him. He knew when to have fun and when it was time to buckle down and get things done. The teachers had grown
