Page 8 of By the Book

“Are you kidding?” I said. “They’re having a great time.”

“Dash.”

“They love this kind of thing. Psych ops. Asymmetric warfare. My dad is probably setting up a tripwire.”

Bobby heaved a sigh, kissed me on the side of the head, and went to “rescue” (notice the air quotes?) my parents.

Better him than me, I thought.

Of course, that was when Mrs. Shufflebottom drifted over to me, calling out, “Dash!” like she’d just spotted me and my snack trying to sneak into the, er, scullery.

“You naughty boy,” she said as she reached me. “I’ve been looking all over for you. I want you to meet somebody.”

Mrs. Shufflebottom was practically the definition of a battleship. She had white hair, impeccable cardigans, and what a writer like me would calla penetrating gaze. She and I hadn’t gotten off to a great start. Hastings Rock’s head librarian had also been a massive fan of Vivienne Carver, the former owner of Hemlock House (and, for about twenty-four hours, my boss). I’d been the chief suspect in Vivienne’s murder, which meant I’d started off on Mrs. Shufflebottom’s bad side, and things had only gotten worse when I’d proven that Vivienne was actually alive, a fraudster, and a cold-blooded killer, rather than a literary martyr.

In the last few months, though, we’d patched things up—or maybe Mrs. Shufflebottom had simply decided to forgive me—and now our relationship floated somewhere between “elderly aunt and favorite nephew” and “gingerbread house lady and sugar-addict child.”

“This is Colleen Worman,” Mrs. Shufflebottom said, drawing a woman forward. “And this is George Chin. Colleen is the one who’s making all of this possible, and George has been such a help.”

I pegged Colleen at somewhere in her sixties—a very well-maintained sixties. She was White, short, and with her hair in sensible curls dyed a cherry red that was anything but sensible. She carried herself so that her, uh, decolletage was leading the charge (so to speak). The man, George, stayed at her side, a stepback, almost like a servant. He was potbellied, with thinning hair and stooped shoulders, and his face had a detached blankness that suggested someone either bored to tears or on the brink of catatonia. He held himself gingerly, and when he shifted his weight, the movement looked stiff, maybe even painful. A recent car accident, I wondered. Maybe a bad fall.

My first thought in response to Mrs. Shufflebottom’s words was thatIwas the one making all of this possible, since I was the one who was currently hosting the charity auction, but before I could ask what she meant, the woman—Colleen—spoke.

“Agatha’s being too kind, really. I’m glad I could help. And it will certainly do more good this way than sitting in that fusty old study.”

“Ah,” I said. “You donated something to the auction?”

“A book from my late husband’s collection.” She glanced around the hall and said, “He would have loved this place.”

“Not just any book,” Mrs. Shufflebottom said, her voice dropping to a stagey whisper. (Honestly, if we’d been in her library, she wouldn’t have put up with it for a second.) “Nathaniel Blackwood’s personal diary!”

A beat passed. They were all looking at me.

“Oh,” I said, a little too late. “Wow.”

“It’s funny how things work out, isn’t it?” Colleen asked. “My husband had a particular fascination with Nathaniel Blackwood. That’s why I said he would have loved to visit Hemlock House. I’m afraid he was a bit of a treasure hunter—he was sure the diary held clues to the fortune Mr. Blackwood hid here.”

“I didn’t know Nathaniel Blackwood kept a diary,” I said. “What’s in it?”

“You’ll have to buy it to find out,” Colleen said with a laugh, and—as a bonus—she swatted my wrist playfully. “When I heard the library was closing, I knew I had to help. We all have to doour part. And since you own Hemlock House, I’m expecting you to start the biddinghigh.”

I was about to tell her that I’d be happy to bid whatever loose change I could find under the chesterfield (although, to be fair, Keme usually scrounged it before I did), but then the rest of her sentence hit me: “What do you mean the library’s closing?”

Mrs. Shufflebottom’s pained expression suggested that information hadn’t been public knowledge.

“You told me this was a fundraiser,” I said.

“Itisa fundraiser, dear,” Mrs. Shufflebottom said.

“You’re closing?”

“I certainly hope not.” She beamed at Colleen. “And I think, thanks to this generous donation, we have a fighting chance of keeping the doors open. But when the mayor and city council decide to defund the library, there’s only so much one can do.”

“What do you mean they defunded the library?” But I didn’t wait for her to answer since, well, it was pretty obvious. “How did that happen? When?”

“Hold on, I see Mrs. Knight, and she has no idea where to put those cupcakes. George, tell him about the book, why don’t you?”

As Mrs. Shufflebottom steamed off to take charge of the cupcakes, I was distracted for a moment by a man—thin, pale, with floppy hair in a classic side part. He wore Coke-bottle glasses, which was kind of amazing since I didn’t think anyone sold (let alone made) glasses like that anymore. And he was bobbing and weaving, clearly caught between approaching our little group or shrinking back into the crowd. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him.

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