Because Olivia’s mother had been preoccupied decorating the house and baking her daughter a butterscotch cake, it was evening by the time she left the lighthouse keeper’s cottage and headed into town for the puppy. Wary of the storm, Miss Leona had closed the library early and had headed home, guiltily leaving the young dog in his crate in the staff room. The pup whined and yelped in fear as the rain smacked against the roof and the wind shook the trees around the building.
Hearing his cries, Olivia’s mother rushed into the library, leaving sodden boot prints on the carpet in her wake. She touched the puppy’s silken ears and stroked him tenderly. But he wouldn’t be consoled, so she grabbed the crate and tried to comfort the shivering pup after she’d settled him onto the passenger seat. Seconds later, a rotten telephone pole crashed through the windshield, killing the young wife and mother instantly.
The dog was unharmed.
Olivia never laid eyes on the puppy. And she planned to never go near the library again. Yet here she was.
“I guess we’ll find out if the current librarians like dogs,” she told Haviland and resolutely made her way toward the double doors.
The building had been given a facelift while Olivia was away at school. The facade was a mass of sparkling glass windows through which metal sculptures of flying gulls hung from vaulted ceilings. Their steel wings caught the light and threw reflections onto the lobby’s tiled floor.
“Lovely,” Olivia remarked as Haviland sniffed a rolling cart containing hardcovers for sale at a dollar apiece. “Anything good?” she asked him and then noticed a copy of
“I should shop here more often,” she murmured, recalling how awkward it had felt the last time she’d patronized her former lover’s bookstore.
She hesitated at the automatic door leading to a spacious carpeted area where the most popular fiction releases were displayed on shelves of blond wood. Olivia knew that while most local businesses welcomed Haviland and knew that he had impeccable manners, there were merchants who preferred him to remain in the Range Rover while Olivia did her shopping.
Olivia tended to judge people based on their reaction to her constant companion. As she approached the circulation desk, she steeled herself against possible disapproval and kept her gaze deliberately fixed upon the woman behind the counter. Olivia didn’t dare glance in the direction of the reference desk. That had been her mother’s desk, her mother’s blue swivel chair, her mother’s perfume clinging to the flyers and bookmarks and summer reading lists. If Olivia turned, she might be haunted by the sound of a tender whisper or a sweet smile.
“Livie?” A woman’s voice inquired softly. “My gracious, after all this time!”
Olivia knew her instantly. “Miss Leona. I can’t believe it’s you!”
The older woman chuckled, hiding her mirth behind her hand. “Well now, I haven’t been a ‘miss’ for decades, dear. I’m Mrs. Fairchild, but since I’ve known you since you were in diapers, you can just call me Leona.”
Olivia was amazed that Leona was still working at the same library after all these years. She’d been younger than Olivia’s mother and had aged gracefully. Now in her midfifties, Leona’s bright blond hair had become a darker, more muted shade, like the beach at twilight. She had laugh lines radiating from the corners of her gull gray eyes, and her figure was fuller, but she carried her extra weight well on her tall frame. Unruffled by Olivia’s scrutiny, she gazed at the daughter of her old friend with a frank gentleness unchanged by the passage of time.
To Olivia’s extreme annoyance, she suddenly felt shy and uncertain in the librarian’s presence. Not only was Leona one of the few townsfolk who’d known her as a child, but she’d also been privy to the intimate thoughts and secret longings of Olivia’s mother.
“Is it okay for Haviland to be here?” Olivia whispered.
Grinning, Leona reached out and stroked the poodle. “As long as he doesn’t lift his leg on the periodicals, it’s fine by me.” Her smile disappeared. “I know it wasn’t easy for you to come in, but I believe your sweet mama would have expected you to be a regular patron. There wasn’t a day that went by when she didn’t try to find you a special book or ask the other librarians for advice on how to instill in you a lifelong love of reading.”
“She succeeded in that goal,” Olivia said and noticed a look of satisfaction settle on the librarian’s face. “I’d like to sign up for a library card, but I’m also here on a research mission. Do you have a few minutes to spare?”
Leona took Olivia’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “For you? I have nothing but time.”
After listening to a single sentence, the librarian cut Olivia’s request short. “How strange! Mr. Plumley wanted information on the same house.” She lowered her voice until it was barely audible. “Tell me. Is it haunted? I don’t recall a single episode of violence occurring in that house, and there are no records documenting anything unusual about the people who lived there, but
Olivia hadn’t expected the librarian to be so plucky, but she liked her all the more for it. She raised her hands in surrender. “I’ll come clean, but what I’m about to say is for your ears alone.”
Leona led Olivia and Haviland into the staff room. She poured two cups of coffee, set them on the table, and offered the poodle a bowl of cool water. “Nick Plumley said he was conducting research for his sequel to
Brandishing the hardcovers she had tucked under her arm, Olivia said, “Yes. I thought it was a compelling story.”
“Me too.” The librarian poured a generous splash of milk into her coffee and, seeing no spoon handy, stirred it with a plastic straw. “As you know, the novel is based on a prison camp set up in New Bern. It was a large camp and employed many families from the surrounding counties. Men who were too old or had a physical disability that prevented them from enlisting became the prison’s guards. Some of the German POWs spent four years in that camp. Plumley’s descriptions of the guards educating their captives about democracy and capitalism are accurate. He was also correct in his depiction of how well the prisoners were treated. It was, for most of the war, a community of men exhibiting mutual respect and even friendship.”
Though this recap was interesting, Olivia didn’t see that it had much to do with Harris’s house. “Yes, I remember that. The Germans were also encouraged to make items out of scrap materials for their own use or to sell. They were allowed to keep every cent of the profits they earned. The prisoners were so content that they never tried to escape—at least not until the pivotal scene in which a disgruntled Nazi captured and transported here toward the end of the war plans a rebellion. One of his confederates kills a guard, and together the escapees hop a freight train for the Midwest and are never seen again.”
“What many people don’t know is that the event Plumley depicts so graphically actually happened,” the librarian stated solemnly. “The murdered guard was from Oyster Bay. His name was James Hatcher. Plumley gave both him and the Germans fictional names, of course, but I’ve met Hatcher’s son, and he believes Plumley described that night in perfect detail.”
Olivia tried to rein in her impatience. “Did James Hatcher live in the house Plumley’s researching?”
“No. I thought one of his descendants might have and that’s why Mr. Plumley was fixated on it, but that turned out to be a dead end.” Leona took a sip of coffee and stared at Haviland, her eyes glazing as she traveled into the past. Olivia began to shake her foot under the table. She was not accustomed to sitting still.
Finally, the librarian blinked twice and, surfacing from the past, returned her attention to Olivia. “I wrote down the names of three families who’ve lived in the house. During the war, it was the Whites, but they moved out of town before the armistice. The next family, the Carters, were there the longest. They raised two boys in that house before moving to Florida in the early nineties. After that, it belonged to the Robinsons, the couple that sold it to your friend last month. They’re childless, and if the gossip chain is accurate, the wife is an agoraphobic.”
“And there was nothing extraordinary about the Whites or the Carters?” she asked.
Leona shook her head. “Not on paper. I pulled every bit of microfiche that had any bearing on those families and shared them with Mr. Plumley. Like you, I wondered why he was so interested in these rather unremarkable folks.”
