By Book or by Crook Read Free

finger in Ronald’s face. He smiled and nodded, but I couldn’t help but notice that his eyes were jerking around the room, looking desperately for an escape. And not finding it.
    “Who’s that with him?” I asked Bertie.
    She dropped her voice. “Mrs. Peterson, one of our most active patrons. She’s a newcomer, meaning she might have been born on the Outer Banks, but her grandparents were not. Her husband, however, is a member of one of our oldest families. She thinks Ronald should be her children’s personal librarian and reading instructor. She’d just love to have him on her staff. If not for the minor fact that they have no staff, because her husband lost all of his family’s money when he sank every penny into a Canadian gold-mining exploration company that turned out not to have a speck of gold in the ground. Poor Ronald. Mrs. Peterson took his vacation as a personal insult. You don’t have to worry much about her, honey. She hasn’t the slightest interest in adult books. I doubt she’s read a single book since high school. When I announced that I’d been able to secure a visit of the Austen collection, Mrs. Peterson actually said, out loud”—here Bertie put on a very good imitation of a snooty, high-pitched voice—“‘But why would anyone be interested in such
old
books?’”
    We left Ronald, looking increasingly desperate under the barrage of Mrs. Peterson’s verbal assault, to his own devices.
    “Where’s Charles?” I asked, referring to one of my favorite library employees.
    “Banished to the closet by the staff break room for the duration of the party.”
    “How’s he taking that?”
    “If you listen closely you can hear the howls of indignation from here.” Charles (named in honor of Mr. Dickens) was the library cat. A gorgeous Himalayan with a black face and expressive blue eyes in a ball of long, tan fur that must weigh a good thirty pounds (I wondered if he frequented Josie’s Cozy Bakery), Charles was particularly loved by the library’s younger patrons. “Mrs. Peterson is allergic to cats. Or so she says. She’s starting to make noises about her dear little Dallas coming home from the library with watering eyes.”
    Aunt Ellen chimed in, “If she dares to suggest you get rid of Charles, I’ll . . . I’ll do something.”
    “I’m sure you will,” I said. I smiled at my aunt.
    “Let me finish introducing Lucy,” Ellen said to Bertie. “You have your guests to see to.”
    “True. Although I’d prefer to spend my time with you two.” Bertie straightened her shoulders and waded into the crowd.
    “So, you’re the new one, are you? Let’s have a look at you.”
    “Excuse me?” I blinked. A woman was standing much too close, intruding into my private space, staring boldly into my face, her eyes dark with hostility. I’d never seen her before. The amount ofproduct in her hair, teased and sprayed into a stiff helmet in a shade of red not known to nature, competed with her perfume. Her fingernails were the color of the wine in the glass she gripped in her right hand. Her dress was lower cut than suited her turkey-neck throat and chest and she tottered on stiletto sandals with straps the thickness of dental floss. She had to be well into her sixties, and not going into old age gracefully. She exhaled alcoholic fumes into my face. The party was just getting under way. She must have had a couple of drinks before arriving.
    “Diane, I don’t think . . .” Aunt Ellen said.
    “I don’t care what you think. A
librarian
. A
young
librarian. Just what we need in this town. Another one of
them
.” She spoke as if “librarian” were another word for “ax murderer.” I had absolutely no idea what she was going on about. I was quite proud to be a librarian.
    “At least,” Diane said, with a snort, “she’s not very
pretty
.”
    That hit a sore spot. I might not be a beauty like my cousin Josie, but I didn’t consider myself to be a total dog, either.
    “I can’t