The Librarian of Boone's Hollow Page 3

  God had heard her little-girl wish and sent Penrose and Fern Cowherd to rescue her from that dreary place. Mother and Daddy often said God chose her specially just for them, but she knew the opposite was true. She had a few fuzzy memories of the parents who’d birthed her, and they had been good people, but she couldn’t imagine better parents than the ones who’d adopted her.

  “Even if you only want to rail at us and complain, we still want to hear from you.”

  Addie pushed off the bed and hurried to the desk. She slid Felicity’s books aside, retrieved paper and a pen from the drawer, and smacked them onto the desktop. A letter formed in her mind. She would not rail at and complain to the wonderful people who’d taken her into their home and loved her as their own. First, she would apologize for not writing sooner. Then she would thank them for everything they’d done for her. Finally, she would promise to get them out of that awful boardinghouse. They didn’t belong there any more than she had belonged in the orphans’ asylum.

  A plan unfolded. She would find a job, save every cent possible, and send it to Mother and Daddy. Lexington was larger than Georgetown. Surely there were opportunities here for a girl to make an honest wage. It meant putting off her own plans for her future, but what kind of daughter would she be if she gave in to her selfish wants and left her parents in need? They’d rescued her. Now she would rescue them.

  She took up the pen and wrote, “Dearest Mother and Daddy…”

  Addie

  AFTER SHE FINISHED THE FLAVORFUL chicken and dumplings Felicity brought from the cafeteria—which she carried in a bowl, thank goodness, and not in her pocket—Addie set off for the Lexington Public Library. She needed solace and would find it there. Had she really awakened only a few short hours ago lighthearted, secure in her world, and with a carefree summer stretching before her? So quickly her life had changed, and the uncertainties now looming ahead rested heavily on her shoulders. Even so, she caught herself walking with a bounce in her step. And why not? How could anyone, even someone burdened with cares and woes, trudge along when something as wondrous as a library waited at the end of the pathway?

  She’d thanked God dozens of times in the past three years for the opportunity to work in the beautiful neoclassical building that was constructed at the edge of Gratz Park thirty years ago, thanks to a generous donation from Andrew Carnegie. The one-mile route from the university campus led more directly to the library’s back door, but Addie always walked the additional yards needed to enter from the front. Every time she ascended the library’s concrete steps and crossed between a pair of its two-story-high fluted columns, she experienced a chill of delight. Books! How she loved books. The clean or musty smell, depending on the book’s age. The weightiness in her hands. The joy of discovery as the words printed on a piece of paper formed pictures in her mind. Was there anything more magical or satisfying than a book?

  Had her fascination begun with the stories Mother read to her each bedtime from the first day of her adoption on, or did it go back even further to the short years before she became Adelaide Cowherd? She couldn’t be sure. All she knew was that books were a marvelous invention, and a novel bearing the name A. F. Penrose—didn’t combining her and her parents’ names create an authorly ring?—on its cover would stand proud one day on library shelves across the state. Perhaps across the entire nation.

  She ran the last few feet to the wide stairway and pattered up the center, as she always did, taking a direct shot to the tall door framed in its ostentatious plaster casing. She entered the building, closed the door with care to avoid even so much as a muffled snap, then paused on the mosaic floor of the vestibule. Silence engulfed her. Peace wove its way through her frame. She drew in a deep breath, and as she exhaled, her worries seemed to drift away. Ah, such a haven.

  Today’s desk librarian, a middle-aged spinster named Miss Collins, looked up from behind the half-octagon-shaped desk that filled the floor space near the open, railed staircase leading to the second story. Her gaze met Addie’s, and she smiled, then beckoned with her fingers.

  Addie crossed to the desk and rested her arms on its cool marble top. “Good afternoon.” She spoke in a whisper. Mother had taught her that one never desecrated the studious atmosphere of a library by speaking loudly.

  “Good afternoon, Addie. I’m glad to see you.” Miss Collins also whispered, and her breath held the scent of peppermint. Daddy sucked Reed’s peppermint discs because he said they settled his stomach. Miss Collins must suffer frequent tummy upset, because Addie had never seen her without a white disc tucked in her cheek. She lifted a thick book from a built-in cubby and placed it upside down between Addie’s elbows. “Look what came in, fresh from the publisher.”

  Addie turned the book over and gasped. “A new Christie novel!”

  The librarian grinned. “Yes. The way you raved over Murder on the Orient Express and Death in the Clouds, I was certain you’d want to be the first to check out The A.B.C. Murders.” Then her bright expression faded. “Oh…You’re preparing for final examinations, aren’t you? You probably don’t have time to engage in reading for enjoyment.”

  Addie swallowed. She hadn’t intended to divulge the news of her expulsion to anyone except the head librarian, Mrs. Carrie Hunt, but Miss Collins might take the book back if Addie didn’t admit the truth. She smoothed the glossy dustcover, relishing the fresh newness beneath her fingers. The book hadn’t even been cataloged yet or the dustcover would have been removed.

  Desire to be the very first person to crack the pages of Mrs. Christie’s newest novel rose and spilled out. “I’ll have time. My studies are all complete.” Strange how one could speak the truth without sharing the entire truth. Strange, too, how the statement left her feeling a little sneaky and guilty.

  “Good for you. I’ll get a card ready, and you can be the first to sign it.”

  “Thank you.” She observed Miss Collins’s activities, trying not to fidget. The woman was very knowledgeable and adept at her job, but sometimes she reminded Addie of a sloth. “Is Mrs. Hunt in her office?”

  “She should be.” Miss Collins meticulously dabbed glue onto the back of a yellow manila library envelope. “I didn’t see her come in, but she always returns from lunch promptly at half past twelve.” The tip of her tongue poked out the corner of her mouth as she pressed the envelope inside the back cover.

  “I’ll go up and talk to her, then come for the book.”

  “That sounds fine.”

  Addie mounted the stairs on her tiptoes, unwilling for her shoes’ metal heel protectors to click on the marble treads. She entered her favorite room in the library, the reading room, and moved past tables, each lit by a hanging chandelier and set in a neat configuration around the rails that opened to the floor below. A half dozen patrons sat at various tables, but none even glanced up at Addie’s passage. All engrossed in their reading, it seemed. A smile trembled on her lips. Such a glorious gift authors gave to readers—an escape into another world. Writers enlightened and entertained and excited simply by stringing words together. Having discovered the joy books provided, she longed to offer a similar delight to others. And she would. Someday.

  On the left side of the room, short hallways sprouted in opposite directions and led to smaller rooms. Addie chose the rear hallway, which took her to the library director’s office. A pair of raised-panel doors, nearly ten feet high, stood open in silent invitation, but Addie paused and tapped lightly on the doorjamb.

  “Come in.”

  She stepped over the threshold into the long, narrow office. Mrs. Hunt sat at her desk. The height of the ceiling dwarfed every piece of furniture in the room, giving the space a dollhouse-like appearance. The woman was busily writing in a journal of some sort, so Addie waited beside the door until Mrs. Hunt set the pen aside and looked up. Surprise registered on her face.

  “Why, Addie, I didn’t realize you were on the schedu
le today.”

  “I’m not. I n-needed to talk to you.” The stutter surprised her. Perhaps this conversation would be more difficult than she’d originally imagined.

  A frown creased Mrs. Hunt’s forehead. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Her legs suddenly felt shaky. She wished she could sit, but the only other chair in the room was in the corner, which would put far too much distance between them. Addie forced her feet to carry her over the unstained maple floorboards. She stopped on the opposite side of the desk, sucked in a fortifying breath, and blurted, “My daddy lost his job. He couldn’t pay my tuition bill, so I can’t finish the semester. He and Mother moved into a boardinghouse, and there isn’t room for me there. Thus, I need to secure a job in Lexington. May I hire on here full time?”

  Mrs. Hunt stared at her blankly for several seconds, eyeglasses glinting from the bulbs in the chandelier hanging above her desk. Then she abruptly rose, rounded the desk, and gripped Addie’s upper arms. “My dear, I wish I could say yes. You’ve been a very dependable worker. But my operating budget has been cut twice in the past three years. This economic depression—it affects so many things, you know.”

  Yes, Addie knew. She offered a weak smile. “I understand.”

  The library director released Addie and folded her arms over her chest. “I would happily write you a recommendation for any potential employers if that would be helpful.”

  Given the woman’s fine reputation in town, her recommendation was worth a great deal. Addie nodded. “Thank you, ma’am, I would appreciate that very much.”

  Mrs. Hunt started around the desk, her steps brisk. “Then I shall write it this afternoon and give it to you tomorrow at the end of your shift.” She stopped and aimed a mild frown in Addie’s direction. “You do intend to continue your part-time position here until the end of the month, as originally planned?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I made a commitment, and Daddy says we should always honor our commitments.” Not to mention she needed the money.

  A smile softened the woman’s expression. “You have a wise daddy who raised a fine, responsible daughter.” Mrs. Hunt settled in her chair and linked her hands on top of the open journal. She angled her head and fixed a solemn look on Addie. “I’ll be honest. Most young women, if faced with your situation, would wallow in self-pity or spew with anger. I’m proud of the way you’re approaching the problem. I’m sure your parents are proud of you, too.”

  A knot filled Addie’s throat, hindering her from speaking. She gave a quick nod, which she hoped Mrs. Hunt would interpret as a thank-you. She turned toward the door.

  “Addie, just a moment.”

  Addie looked back.

  “Whatever decent employment opportunities exist in Lexington will be listed in the classified section of the Lexington Herald.”

  “Yes, I planned to buy a paper and look through the classifieds for a room to let.” Panic tried to attack. The dormitories would close after graduation. Only one week away. Where would she go if she couldn’t find a place to live? “Your daddy and I are praying for you…” Part of Mother’s letter whispered in Addie’s memory and encouraged her to remain hopeful. “I’ll search the help wanted section, too.”

  “Well, please make use of the library’s copy rather than unnecessarily spending a nickel.”

  Addie wouldn’t argue about saving her money. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll do that.” She left Mrs. Hunt’s office and returned to the reading room.

  Those poring over books seemed so peaceful. Temptation to go down to the first floor and retrieve the copy of The A.B.C. Murders tugged hard. She’d find blissful escape in an Agatha Christie mystery. How she needed an escape from the harsh reality that had befallen her like an unexpected thunderstorm. But Mrs. Hunt had called her responsible. A responsible person would see to business first and pleasure second. Setting aside the selfish desire, she tiptoed between tables to the door that opened into the periodical room.

  One quarter the size of the reading room, crowded with freestanding shelves and sporting only one overhead chandelier above the center of three tables jammed end to end, the periodical room seemed gloomy—much like Dean Crane’s office—in comparison. She’d take the newspaper to the reading room for examination. She hurried to the rack of stained dowel rods, where the latest issues of the five newspapers purchased by the library could be displayed.

  Four of the five rods held folded sheets of newsprint. Addie scanned the titles—Mount Vernon Signal, Public Ledger, Kentucky Irish American, Lexington Leader—and stifled a little huff of irritation. Where was the Lexington Herald? Sometimes patrons didn’t return items to their rightful places. How many times had she found books on the wrong shelves or magazines lying on chairs? She scanned the room, seeking a newspaper discarded on a desk or tucked on a shelf. At the far end of the row of tables, in front of the single tall window in the corner of the room, a lone figure hunched over a newspaper. No doubt the very newspaper Addie needed.

  She remained in place for several seconds, observing the man. His stiff pose and unwavering focus on the newsprint in front of him spoke of deep concentration. She wanted to ask if he was nearly finished, but she’d been taught to treat others the way she wished to be treated. She didn’t appreciate people interrupting her reading, so she’d have to be patient and wait her turn. In the meantime, Agatha Christie’s new novel was waiting.

  Addie spun on her heel and returned to the checkout desk, moving as swiftly yet as quietly as possible. Miss Collins slid the crisp new checkout card across the desk with a smile, and Addie wrote her name on the first line. Then, with the book tucked safely in the crook of her arm, she hurried up the stairs and chose the table closest to the periodical room door. She sat facing the door so she’d be sure to notice the gentleman leaving, and she opened the book.

  It was in June of 1935 that I came home from my ranch in South America for a stay of about six months…

  As expected, she was pulled immediately into the story’s world. She turned page after page, eyes swallowing paragraphs of text. Sometimes smiling, sometimes nodding, occasionally biting her thumbnail or pressing her hand to her chest. She flipped a page and encountered the heading, Six: The Scene of the Crime. She gave a start. Chapter six already? How long had she been reading?

  A tall grandfather clock, its chime silenced, stood sentry in the corner of the room. She glanced at its face and gasped. Almost three o’clock? She’d been caught up in the book for well over an hour. Was the man still reading the newspaper?

  She leaped up and darted around the table and into the periodical room. The table near the window was empty, and the newspaper was draped neatly over the top rod of the rack. Inwardly berating herself for being so unaware of her surroundings, she yanked the paper from its rod and flopped it open on the closest table. She turned to the final section, where the classified ads were always printed.

  The entire page where help wanted and rooms-to-let posts should be was missing.

  “That creep!” She clapped her hand over her mouth and sent a quick look left and right. Not another soul in the room. She smacked the tabletop and spoke aloud again. “What an absolute creep.”

  Emmett Tharp

  EMMETT RECORDED THE ADDRESS FOR the last job opportunity listed—feather plucker at a chicken plant outside town—then wadded up the sheet of newsprint. He started to toss it into the small wastebasket next to his desk but paused, his hand in midair. Maw would say he’d stolen the section from the library’s newspaper, and she’d be right. Paw would snort and say, “A feller who’s s’posed to be so smart can sure act dumb.” It pained Emmett to admit it, but Paw would be right. All his studying for final examinations must have numbed his brain if he forgot to take something as basic as paper and a pen to the library.

  He balanced the crumpled ball of paper on his palm, frowning. Should he return the page to the library?
He didn’t care to make that long walk from his room in Bradley Hall to the library for a second time in one day. Especially with it being so hot and muggy out. Still, someone else might need to read the help wanted ads. Not that there were countless options. He smoothed the page as flat as possible on the desk. Wrinkles, smudges, and little tears on the edges marred the sheet of newsprint. The library wouldn’t want it now. He turned it into a ball, lobbed it into the wastebasket, then put his head in his hands and groaned. He might as well wad up his hard-earned college diploma, too. What use was his degree if no businesses were hiring managers?

  When Mr. Halcomb, the teacher back in Boone’s Hollow, first mentioned going to college, Emmett had thought the man addlebrained. Nobody from Emmett’s family, nor anyone from Boone’s Hollow as far as he knew, had ever gone to a university. Most men either put in an honest day’s work in the coal mines or dodged revenuers and sold distilled whiskey. Paw had wanted Emmett to sign on at the mine as soon as he turned fifteen to help support the family. But Mr. Halcomb said a mind like his shouldn’t be wasted. So, to Paw’s chagrin, Emmett had stayed in school all the way to twelfth grade and, mostly to make the teacher happy, took the scholarship test. He was more surprised than Paw when he got the letter from the university telling him he’d won.

  Every year for four years straight, he’d received scholarship money to pay for tuition, room, board, and books. A waste of time, Paw called it. A blessing, Maw called it. He heard her proud voice in his head. “The Almighty has big plans for you if He’s rainin’ down such a blessin’.” Emmett had always thought Maw was right. Until now. He glared at the list of possible jobs he’d written on his notepad. Not one of them looked like the means to fulfill big plans. Each looked more like a joke.