Booked on Murder

  A HAUNTED LIBRARY MYSTERY

  Allison Brook

  For Dawn Dowdle, agent and friend, who found a home for my Haunted Library Series. I miss you.

  Chapter One

  “But, Sally, I’m not a writer. And besides—”

  My boss glowered at me from across her desk, stopping my excuse midsentence. “Carrie, I give you plenty of leeway when it comes to running your department, but if l ask you to do something, I expect you to follow through. Especially when it has the board’s approval.”

  My mouth fell open in amazement. “Now the library board wants me to write an article about that poor woman, after ordering us to keep it under wraps like it was a national secret?” I thought a moment. “Uncle Bosco never mentioned it.”

  Sally had the courtesy to look abashed. “I suppose he never got a chance since I mentioned the Gazette’s request to the board members only this morning via our Zoom meeting. They agreed unanimously that you should write the article, not one of their reporters.”

  I sank back into my chair to absorb this information. Three weeks ago, while helping Norman Tobin, the reference librarian, put the Historical Room’s collection in order in its new location in the library’s new addition, I’d come upon the diary of a woman named Verity Babcock mixed in with a pile of old ledgers and pamphlets. In 1652, she’d been hanged as a witch, one of four people victimized in this manner here in Clover Ridge, Connecticut.

  I tried to approach the issue from another angle. “Verity Babcock suffered a tragic miscarriage of justice. Her death is a blot on our town’s history. Don’t you think someone who writes for a living would do a better job publicizing her story?”

  Sally’s smile was triumphant. “Actually, Chuck Ryland, the editor in chief, loves the idea that a Singleton with roots going back four generations discovered this piece of local history. And when I told him what a fine writer you are, he was all for your writing the piece.”

  Knowing I’d lost the battle, I caved. “When does he want it?”

  “Monday afternoon, latest. It’s being featured in a three-page spread in Wednesday’s edition.”

  I stared at Sally. “That’s three days from today.”

  Sally was too busy eyeing me critically to answer. “Pretty blouse. Simple gold earrings. But you might want to put on some eye makeup and tame your hair. I have a can of hair spray you can borrow.”

  Feeling self-conscious, I smoothed back my hair that tended to puff out when it needed a trim. “Why are you so concerned with my appearance?”

  “The Gazette’s sending over a photographer. He should be arriving within the hour.”

  * * *

  I stormed into my office and slammed the door behind me. It was a quarter after three, and Trish Templeton, my part-time assistant had left for the day. Evelyn Havers, my ghostly pal made an appearance and perched in her favorite spot, the corner of Trish’s desk. Today she wore a white short-sleeved blouse over a colorful skirt and black patent sling-backed pumps with kitten heels—the perfect outfit for a stylish sixty-something ghost on a sunny day in early June. I often wondered where Evelyn kept her extensive wardrobe that was always appropriate for the current season. And how did she manage to change her hairstyle so often? There were so many things I didn’t know about Evelyn’s life when she wasn’t visiting me here at the library, and I feared I never would.

  “Someone’s in a foul mood,” she observed.

  “Sally’s insisting that I write an article about finding Verity Babcock’s diary for the Gazette.

  “And? So? As I remember, you were all excited about your discovery and a bit put out when Sally got word from the board that they wanted to keep mum about it.”

  I nodded. I heard a scratching at the door and went to open it. Smoky Joe, the gray library cat that was actually my cat, strutted into the office, his bushy tail flying high. He strode over to his bowl and glanced up at me. Good servant that I was, I hurried to fill it with kibble.

  When Smoky Joe was busy eating, I turned back to Evelyn. “You’re right. As soon as I read it, I knew people had to have access to Verity’s diary so they would know firsthand how terrified she was while being subjected to the most awful accusations. And lies. One of the townspeople insisted she’d used witchcraft to poison his cow, so he could acquire her land. Even worse, Verity’s neighbor claimed her husband had died because he’d ingested Verity’s herbal medicine.”

  I exhaled loudly. “Verity could read and write, and was known as an herbalist and healer. She was also a widow who owned land. No doubt, some of her neighbors were envious of her wealth and resented the prestige her healing skills gave her.

  “It struck me that Verity’s was an extreme case of the #metoo movement. I still think that, but being forced to write a newspaper article isn’t in my job description. Sally seems to have forgotten I’m getting married two weeks from tomorrow, and I’ve got tons of things to take care of.”

  Evelyn hopped down from her perch and started pacing toward me. I shivered as she drew near. Though she tried to be considerate, sometimes she forgot that when she came close to me she brought a chill from the other side.

  “Carrie, my dear, you have everything in order: the band, the photographer, and the caterers. Your father, Bosco, and Harriet are taking care of the rehearsal dinner. Victor promised to have his house and the tent setup on the back lawn in perfect order for the big event. I know you’re nervous, but what requires your immediate attention?”

  I ran through the wedding list of obligations that never left my mind. “I have an appointment to try on my gown tomorrow morning, and hope they got the alterations right. Dylan and I still need to work on the seating arrangements.”

  “And?”

  I shook my head in frustration. “Right now I can’t remember what else needs taking care of. The truth is, I don’t like Sally foisting assignments on me. She’ll do anything to bring attention to the library.”

  “Maybe so.” Evelyn returned to the corner of Trish’s desk and crossed her legs. “Is that a bad thing?”

  “I feel like I’m being used. Exploited.”

  “And Verity Babcock?”

  “She’ll be exploited as a seventeenth-century #metoo victim.” I released a sigh of exasperation. “But at the same time her story must be told. Verity was no witch. Her diary makes it very clear that she was targeted because she was a widow who grew herbs, which she sometimes sold to her neighbors to help them heal.”

  “Until one of them took her herbs and died.”

  I grimaced. “Not because of Verity’s herbs.”

  “Of course not. John Whitcomb was sick. It was only when he was dying that his wife begged Verity for medicine. When he died, his distraught widow accused Verity of witchcraft,” Evelyn said, repeating what I’d told her.

  “Exactly.” I sat quietly for a minute, musing on the last few entries in Verity’s diary. “Her terror grew as one neighbor after another bad-mouthed her, drudging up old grievances. I gathered she wasn’t the easiest person to get along with, but that wasn’t the issue. The number of accusations grew, and a month later Verity was in jail. Six months later she was dead.”

  “You’ll write a wonderful article about your discovery and the contents of the diary. I know you will.”

  “Thanks, Evelyn.” Just then the perfect opening sentence came to mind. I turned to my computer to get it down before I forgot it.

  When I turned around, Evelyn had disappeared. Without a word of parting, as usual. I realized my good humor was restored. Once again her common sense had made me see in a fresh new way a situation I’d been fuming about.

  The phone rang. It was Uncle Bosco.

  “Hello, Carrie, I hope you’re not angry with me for not giving you a heads-up about your being conscripted into writing the article for the Gazette. Liane went for the idea as soon as Sally mentioned it at our Zoom meeting. The others agreed, and suddenly it was a done deal.”

  Of course Liane Walters, the president of the library board, loved Sally’s suggestion. Liane was as committed as Sally when it came to promoting the library every which way. And in the twelve years she’d held the position, she had done an excellent job. It was Liane who had instigated the library’s expansion, enabling us to offer many more programs and services to our patrons.

  “I must admit I was a bit put out at first,” I said, “but I don’t mind writing the article. It’s a subject dear to my heart.”

  “It’s just with your wedding coming up in a few weeks, I feel guilty giving you extra work. I know your aunt’s going to give me what for when I get home tonight, insisting that I should have stood up for you.”

  I smiled, thinking about my great-aunt and -uncle and how lucky I was that they had welcomed me into their home two years ago, nurturing me when I was at my lowest point. “Tell Aunt Harriet I’m fine about it. Who knows? Maybe I’ll turn into a writer,” I joked.

  There was a knock at the door. “I have to go, Uncle Bosco. The photographer from the newspaper is here to take a few shots of me.”

  I put down the receiver and called out, “Come in.”

  A tall, string bean of a young man with a mop of dark, curly hair and a scraggly beard entered the office. Two cameras hung from straps around his neck.

  “Carrie, right?”

  “I am.”

  “Hi. Nick Fanning from the Gazette.” He pushed aside the cameras and offered me his hand.

  Smoky Joe strode over and sniffed Nick’s trouser legs. Sati
sfied, he left through the open door.

  “I imagine you want to take photos of Verity Babcock’s diary,” I said.

  “Of course.”

  “Then let’s head down to the new Historical Room. We’ll stop by for Norman Tobin, the reference librarian. The Historical Room is really his baby. I was only helping him go through our collection and put it in some kind of order.”

  “That’s when you discovered Verity’s diary?” Nick said.

  “Yes.”

  We left my office and walked in the direction of the new wing. Norman was waiting for us at the reference desk. I was fond of our new reference librarian. He was good-natured and very knowledgeable. He bore me no ill will, unlike his predecessor Dorothy, Evelyn’s niece, who would have been furious that I was the one who had come upon the diary and not her. I made the introductions, and the three of us set out for the Historical Room.

  The new Historical Room was twice the size of the old one and still required many more hours of sorting through the entire collection. But we’d already made good use of the available wall space by mounting several photos and maps around the room.

  “Excuse the mess,” Norman said, gesturing at the pile of papers and brochures that threatened to slide off the large table. Boxes containing old children’s toys, utensils, and clothing were stacked in one corner. “Ever since Carrie discovered the diary, we’ve been besieged with donations, all of which require careful sorting so they can be authenticated.”

  I stepped behind the display case that had arrived only a week earlier. Inside was Verity Babcock’s diary along with a few pamphlets from the 1600s. The three of us peered down at the diary.

  It was encased in a clear acid-free sleeve. The cover was a faded brown, its corners bent, the edges worn and discolored. “Do you think we could remove it for the photos?” Nick asked.

  I looked at Norman. He laughed. “I don’t see why not since it was stashed haphazardly among papers and pamphlets for so many years. A forensic expert is coming to verify the diary’s age and authenticity, but we have no reason to doubt that it was Verity Babcock’s diary.”

  “You won’t be able to photograph any of the diary’s pages,” I told Nick. “The paper Verity used is stronger than the kind we use now, but the diary is almost five hundred years old. Norman and I are the only ones who handle the diary. The forensic expert will advise us how best to keep it in good condition.”

  I unlocked the rear sliding door, wishing the security system we’d set up for the library’s art gallery and entrances had already been extended to protect this room, and placed the diary on top of the case.

  As soon as I removed the sleeve, Nick was all business. He had me pose holding the diary in various positions. Then he took a few shots of Norman and me in the midst of what appeared to be a serious discussion about the diary. Click, click, click went one camera. Then the other. Ten minutes later it was over.

  “I’ll send you copies of the photos so you can tell me which ones you definitely don’t want me to use. And which you like but need to have touched up.” He grinned. “I can perform miracles.”

  “Good to know,” I said. “Thanks.”

  Nick sped off, and Norman and I returned to our duties at a slower pace.

  * * *

  At five o’clock, I went in search of Smoky Joe and found him behind the circulation desk, where my best friend, Angela Prisco, worked. When Angela saw me approach, she moved to block my view of Smoky Joe, who was munching away.

  “So, this is how you follow my instructions regarding not giving him treats,” I said.

  “The poor cat was hungry. Was I supposed to let him starve?”

  I tsk-tsked. “He wouldn’t come here begging for food if he didn’t know you kept treats for him.”

  Angela threw out her hands in mock despair. “What can I say? Guilty as charged.”

  I let Smoky Joe polish off his snack, then gathered him up in my arms.

  “Are we still meeting at the bridal shop tomorrow morning at eleven?” Angela asked.

  “Uh-huh. The alterations are done, and our dresses are ready for us to try on. In fact, Julia will be picking up her dress too. I asked her to join us because I want to treat my two matrons of honor to brunch.”

  Angela grinned. “A nice perk for being in your wedding party.”

  I smiled as I made a mental check list of our wedding party. Julia, my other matron of honor, was my cousin Randy’s wife; their five-year-old daughter, Tacey, was my flower girl; her older brother, Mark, was our ring bearer; and Mac, Dylan’s business partner who had once been his mentor and employer, was his best man. My cousin Randy and Gary Winton, who worked for Dylan, were Dylan’s two groomsmen. And of course my father was walking me down the aisle.

  Five minutes later, I had Smoky Joe in his carrier and was heading for my car in the parking lot behind the library. The trees were sporting green leaves, the sun was shining brightly, and all was right with the world.

  Dylan and I were getting married! A sense of excitement coursed through me every time I thought about our upcoming wedding at Victor Zalinka’s elegant home above the Long Island Sound. Dear friend and lovely man that he was, Victor had given us carte blanche to make whatever arrangements we liked. A very kind and generous offer, since his home was filled with modern art and pre-Columbian figures worth several million dollars.

  After much discussion and weather checking of the third Saturday night in June, Dylan and I had decided to hold the marriage ceremony in the living room, the cocktail hour out on the deck that ran along the back of the house, and the dancing and dinner beneath a tent on the lawn. We’d asked Mayor Alvin Tripp, a good friend with whom I served on the town council, to officiate.

  Dylan and I had already taken care of the major arrangements. Besides those tasks Evelyn had mentioned, we’d chosen our menu; ordered the tent, rental tables, and chairs, and I’d reserved several rooms at a nearby motel for our out-of-town guests. Still, every day something new cropped up that required our attention.

  My cell phone’s jingle sounded when I was close to home.

  “Hey, Babe, just calling to say I should be home by six thirty. Are we eating in or out?”

  “In. I have an article to write for the newspaper, and I’d like to start on it this evening.”

  “Fine with me. Maybe we can finish the seating plan too.”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “See you in a few.”

  I smiled as I disconnected. In two weeks and one day I was going to be Mrs. Dylan Avery. Of course I planned to remain Carrie Singleton in my professional life at the library. When I told Dylan this, he simply said, “Whatever makes you happy.”

  That was typical Dylan and one of the reasons why I adored him. He never tried to control me or insist that I follow the “traditional” way of doing things. Whenever I found myself investigating a local crime that had somehow landed in my lap, he would tell me to be careful. He never ordered me not to get involved or tried to make me curtail my participation. Frankly, I couldn’t live with a man who did, and I loved Dylan all the more for respecting me this way.

  I turned onto the private Avery road; passed the white manor house where Dylan had grown up with his parents, now deceased; and drove on to the cottage where we lived. Though we both loved the cottage, we’d started house hunting last fall. The house model we liked the most was a five-bedroom colonial with a huge backyard that was scheduled to be built in a development a few miles away. So far, they hadn’t broken ground yet, so if we went with this house, it would be more than a year before we could move in.

  I unlocked the front door and released Smoky Joe from his carrier. As usual, he went straight to his bowl, as if he hadn’t eaten all day. I fed him, changed into jeans and a T-shirt, then went outside to get the mail.

  There was a packet from our travel agent. I ripped open the large envelope and thumbed through the papers inside. Dylan and I were honeymooning in Santorini and Mykonos. Ah, they wanted to know which day trips we wanted to sign up for, noting that we could do that online. And there was a note about a room change in our Mykonos hotel. We needed to contact them ASAP.

  This should be the biggest problem we have to deal with, I thought as I went back inside to start dinner. I wanted to buy a few more items of clothing for our honeymoon, firm up our decision regarding the desserts at our reception, and give the musicians a playlist of our favorite songs. The day after our wedding, we were flying off to Greece! I hoped no major catastrophe would arise in the next two weeks to upset our plans.