Page 33 of By the Book

The only part of that sentence I heard wasadequate funding. “What would that mean?”

“Well, mostly you’d charge money for people to tour the property. I’ve thought about it a lot, and I think it’s got great potential. You have a built-in customer base because so many people come here during the tourist season. Plus, you’d have a big advantage because a lot of our visitors happen to be older, and that demographic tends to be more interested in cultural experiences, like a tour of a unique historical home. Think about all the people who don’t have anything to do on a rainy day—I bet you’d sell out. Plus, you could still use the house for events, which I understand you’ve been considering.”

“Huh. I guess I’ll have to think about it.”

“You’d have to move out of the house, of course, and you’d need to figure out how to set up a business, transfer the deed, get some sort of historical status or designation. I could help you with all that.” He seemed to hear himself, and a blush set his face on fire. “Mrs. Carver did a lot of good things for our town, butI always wished she’d let more people see Hemlock House. It’s an amazing space, and there’s really nothing else like it. A lot of people who do this find a way to stay on or near the property—I know that the coach house has its own flat, so you wouldn’t even have to find somewhere new to live.”

No, I thought, but I’d have to kick out Indira. And it would mean not living in Hemlock House. And even though the house was insane and way too big for one person and, let’s face it, was occasionally seriously spooky the nights when Bobby had to work and I was all alone (I mean, it’s a Class V haunted mansion)—it was my home. And the thought of letting all those people tramp through my home—the first place that had ever felt likemine—made me sad in a way I hadn’t experienced before.

On the other hand, money. Enough money to keep the lights on (literally). Enough money, maybe, that I could keep trying this writing thing and see if I could get it to work.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“I can show you some similar places,” Stewart said. “And I have a friend you could talk to if you wanted to know more—he’s worked at a few different preservation societies, and I bet he could help with some of the business side of things.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll think about that.” I glanced around. At this hour of the day, the library was even quieter than usual, with only a handful of patrons in sight—Aric Akhtar, reading one of those newspapers-on-a-stick thingies; a young mom I’d seen before, whose three boys were excitedly overturning book bins in the children’s area; and a woman I knew belonged to the extended Archer clan, who was nose deep in—sigh—one of my mom’s books. (The Girl Who Was Murdered, in case you have to know.) The familiar blanket of silence lay over everything. This was my chance to try again, so I said, “Someone told me Mrs. Shufflebottom got arrested.”

Stewart nodded. “Oh, you know what else you should consider? Merch. I bet people would love a T-shirt of Hemlock House.”

“Hold on—she did get arrested?” I did another quick check—the boys in the children’s section were now climbing on the display cubes, but otherwise, there was none of the hue and cry I’d been expecting. “Why is everyone so calm?”

“Well, the sheriff took her away in her car. But it’s Mrs. Shufflebottom, you know? It’s not like she made a scene. You should do 3D puzzles, too. Can you imagine how cool that would be, a 3D puzzle of Hemlock House?”

“Uh, right.”

“STEWART!”

Guess who?

A heartbeat later, Millie came around the corner at a power walk. She was waving both arms—you know, in case we hadn’t heard her—and continued, “STEWART, COME QUICK! THE WATER FOUNTAIN IS LEAKING!”

It wasn’t a library voice.

It wasn’t an inside voice.

It wasn’t even an outside voice, not unless you were on an artillery range.

Stewart’s eyes got huge, and he dropped the book he’d been about to check in and left the scanner dangling by its cord. He hurried toward Millie. I decided this was my chance to escape further Hemlock House-related conversations, but Stewart turned back, waved impatiently, and called, “Come on!”

Millie was already leading Stewart deeper into the library, so I trudged after them. As soon as they turned the corner, Keme appeared, coming in the opposite direction. He must have been waiting for them, because he caught my arm, turned me back toward the circulation desk, and added—unnecessarily, in my opinion—“Not you, you donkey.”

“I’m so confused right now.”

He marched me behind the desk toward a door marked LIBRARIAN. Then he gave it an experimental rattle. Locked.

“If you can buy me enough time,” I said, “I might be able to pick it—”

Keme took out his wallet, produced a Fred Meyer’s card, and loided the lock in one easy movement. The door popped open.

“Are you James Bond?” I asked.

He smirked and nodded for me to go first.

Inside, the office was dimly lit and smelled like Lipton tea. It was even quieter than the library’s main area, and the click of the door shutting punctuated the silence. An L-shaped desk occupied most of the space, the desktop covered by an enormous monitor, a printer, and avalanches of paper. (I have yet to meet a single librarian who fully believes in the benefits of going digital.) A pair of chairs and several filing cabinets filled the rest of the space. On one of the filing cabinets, a wooden sign said BEING A LIBRARIAN IS AS EASY AS A-B-C. Vinyl letters on the wall behind the desk informed us THE BOOK IS BETTER. And a poster showed an old-fashioned picture of a man’s face. It had been x-ed out in stylized red spray paint, and below it were the words DOWN WITH DEWEY.

Keme chose that moment to kick me in the ankle.

“Ow!” When he made an impatient gesture, I said, “I’m getting a sense of the space. And you aren’t doing anything either.”

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