Overdue or Die

  A HAUNTED LIBRARY MYSTERY

  Allison Brook

  Many thanks to my dear friends and fellow mystery writers, Peg Cochran and Kaye George. Reporting our daily word count as we do, along with the minutia in our lives, spurs me on to write more than I probably would, and reminds me that plot problems and other story-related issues are all part of the writing process.

  Chapter One

  I gazed down at Great-Uncle Bosco in his bed in the Cardiology Care Unit of South Conn Hospital, trying to process the fact that he’d suffered a heart attack.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to come back when Clarissa finishes taking your vitals?” Great-Aunt Harriet asked her husband of fifty-five years.

  Uncle Bosco’s eyes fluttered open. “Go home and get some rest,” he managed, his voice little more than a whisper.

  “Good idea, Harriet. Bosco needs his rest.” Clarissa, the no-nonsense nurse, edged the medical cart closer to the bed. Her glance met mine with the unmistakable message: “Get her to leave!”

  “Let’s go home, Aunt Harriet.” I put my arm around her bowed shoulders. “You’ve been here all day. You must be exhausted.”

  “Yes, but Bosco was asleep most of the time. And then they took him for all those tests.”

  I urged Aunt Harriet forward. Reluctantly she began walking. When we reached the doorway, I glanced back at my uncle. He was seventy-seven, of average height, and strong from all his years of farming. The extra twenty pounds he’d gained had settled around his belly. But lying there, he looked very fragile as Clarissa checked his pulse.

  “Goodbye, Uncle Bosco! I’ll be back soon,” I called out more cheerfully than I felt.

  He turned his head and sent me a smile, too exhausted to speak. A jolt of dread coursed through my body. Uncle Bosco was my pillar of strength. I’d shown up on his doorstep eighteen months ago when I was at my lowest ebb. My own mother had been too wrapped up in her own life to let me stay with her and her husband in Hollywood. But Bosco and Harriet had welcomed me gladly. And so I had gone to stay with them in Clover Ridge, Connecticut, the home town of my father’s family.

  In their warm and loving care I had grown strong and flourished. I had taken on the position of head of programs and events at the Clover Ridge Library. I had started making friends and had fallen in love with Dylan Avery. At the mayor’s request, I had even joined the town council—for the following year anyway. In the year and a half I’d been living in Clover Ridge, I’d evolved into a responsible adult.

  My lips quivered as old, familiar insecurities started creeping back. Uncle Bosco was in the CCU, recovering from a heart attack. I honestly didn’t know how I would manage if he were to … die. I counted on his being in my life the way I counted on the sun showing up most mornings.

  Aunt Harriet was beside herself with fear and worry. I didn’t want her to see I was in as bad shape as she. I had to be strong for her, for them both.

  We didn’t speak as we rode down in the elevator to the hospital’s lobby. As we approached the exit, I asked, “Are you feeling up to driving home by yourself?”

  “Yes, of course, but I won’t be able to sleep a wink. I’m not used to being apart from Bosco.” She turned to me, her eyes pleading. “Carrie, I’m so worried something will happen during the night.”

  As if you could save his life by staying at his side. “The cardiologist said he’s coming along nicely,” I reminded her. “They’re hoping to move him into the step-down unit soon.”

  “I’ve heard people who had a heart attack sometimes improve, then take a turn for the worse,” Aunt Harriet said darkly.

  “Let’s try to be positive. Tomorrow you’ll see for yourself how much better he is after you both have a good night’s sleep,” I said, knowing no such thing. My nerves were jangling, and I hoped Uncle Bosco was truly on the road to recovery.

  I walked Aunt Harriet to her car in the hospital parking lot, then watched her fasten her seat belt and start the motor, before heading to my own car. It was seven o’clock on a chilly mid-November evening. I welcomed the darkness after the bright artificial lights inside the hospital.

  I called Dylan, my fiancé, as I drove out of the lot. “I should be home in about fifteen minutes.”

  “How’s Bosco?”

  “Very weak, but the cardiologist thinks he’ll make a full recovery if he follows instructions and continues to do so when he’s home.”

  Dylan made a scoffing sound. “I can’t see Bosco giving up his ice cream and Harriet’s desserts.”

  “He’ll have to—and start exercising—if he wants to get well.”

  I sped home, eager to be with the man I loved. I’d dropped off Smoky Joe, my furry feline who was also the library cat, at my cottage, after work, before going to the hospital. I was used to having him in the car with me, and I missed his company. I released a sigh of relief when I finally turned onto the Avery private road. I drove past the white manor house, and a quarter mile farther I arrived at my cottage.

  Dylan was waiting for me in the hallway. I flung myself into his arms, embarrassed to discover I was crying. He rubbed my back and uttered soothing words as he led me to the living-room sofa.

  “Be right back,” he murmured, and returned a minute later carrying a glass with a hefty pour of what looked like scotch.

  “Drink this.”

  I sipped, welcoming the strong but tasty liquor as it slid down my throat.

  Smoky Joe appeared from wherever he’d been napping, and leaped into my lap. I pressed him close. His purring managed to calm me somewhat.

  “Hungry?” Dylan asked.

  I shrugged. “I ate something at the hospital. Did you have dinner?”

  “I nibbled on a few things.” His eyes lit up as he smiled. “We’ve got two of those stuffed chicken breasts in the fridge. I can heat them up if you like.”

  “Okay.” After a minute, I added, “And coffee would be nice.”

  I followed Dylan into the kitchen, where he put containers of food in the microwave and placed cutlery and dishes on the table. Then he sat down and took my hand.

  “Bosco’s basically a healthy man. You said yourself the cardiologist expects him to make a full recovery.”

  I nodded. He was telling me exactly what I’d told Aunt Harriet earlier. Tears welled up again, and I blinked them away. “I know that’s what he said, but Bosco looked so small in that bed. And he was very weak when we left him. He could barely manage to speak.”

  “The thought of losing someone we love is terrifying,” Dylan said.

  I sniffed. “The truth is, we all end up dying.”

  “Thanks for the reminder, Miss Sunshine.” Dylan made a face that struck me as funny. I started to giggle, which set him off laughing.

  The microwave beeped and Dylan brought the food to the table. I cut into my food, suddenly ferociously hungry. In a minute, we were both too busy stuffing our faces to speak.

  “Feeling better?” Dylan asked when we’d cleaned our plates.

  “I am.” I carried our dishes to the sink and brought over the carafe of coffee Dylan had made.

  “You’re sure? Because I’ll cancel my travel plans if you need me.”

  “Are you kidding? How many times did you try to contact Alec’s friend before he finally answered you? I know you can’t wait to get your hands on that painting.”

  Dylan chuckled. “I admit I want to examine it closely. Professional curiosity. Who would have guessed that a great-great-uncle of mine had a childhood pal who turned out to be a famous artist.”

  “From what you’ve told me about Terrance Haggerty, the painting must be worth a lot of money.”

  “I’d say in the low six figures, since it’s one of his early paintings.”

  “Don’t you think it’s strange that it took Jack Winslow practically an entire month to answer your calls?” I said. “Alec told us about the painting in October, just before he left us. And here we are now, two and a half weeks from Thanksgiving.”

  Dylan cocked his head and grinned. “Aren’t you the suspicious one? Jack explained he was off visiting his kids in Michigan, then came home sick and was nursing a bad cold. He apologized for the delay in getting back to me. You know he offered to mail the painting to me, but when I explained I have to go through Uncle Alec’s stuff from his Chicago apartment and since he lives just a half hour’s drive from there, I preferred to pick up the painting myself.”

  “I suppose being suspicious is the result of stumbling across too many murders.”

  As we sipped our coffee, I thought of Dylan’s Uncle Alec, who had shown up in ghostly form in the library two months ago. He’d been dazed and suffering from amnesia, so he had no idea how he’d ended up dead in the basement of the building that was being renovated to become the library’s new addition.

  My ghostly friend Evelyn Havers and I had had a tough time keeping Alec hidden so he wouldn’t collide with patrons and scare them half to death. When we finally figured out—all right, with the assistance of that annoying investigative TV reporter—who had murdered Alec and who’d killed Alec’s murderer, Dylan’s uncle was finally allowed to go to his rest. Though Alec had been a scam artist and often very irritating, I had to admit I’d developed a fondness for the guy.

  Calmer now, I went into my office to read my emails on my laptop. Afterward I rejoined Dylan in the living room and watched a few TV shows. Smoky Joe joined us, then followed us into the bedroom at eleven. He propped himself against my hip as Dylan turned out his light
. He was flying to Chicago tomorrow and would be away for three or four days. I was going to miss him, I realized, as his breathing turned to a gentle snore.

  “We’ll start looking at wedding venues as soon as I get back,” he murmured.

  “We will,” I answered, surprised he was still awake.

  “You’re not going to chicken out.”

  “Not on your life.”

  And I meant it. All of my fears and concerns about getting married had left me. As soon as Dylan was back from Chicago, we’d find a place for the wedding reception and set the date.

  * * *

  The next morning I drove to the library, feeling a bit sad. When I returned home to the cottage that evening, Dylan would be hundreds of miles away.

  “We’ll keep each other company, won’t we, Smoky Joe?” I said.

  Smoky Joe peered at me from his carrier on the seat beside me but didn’t bother to answer. I was so used to having Dylan in my life, it boggled my mind to realize that until a year ago he was but a dim memory of someone I’d known when I was a young child. My brother and I had spent part of every summer on the Singleton Farm, and Dylan had often come to play with Jordan. I pressed my lips together as I thought of my brother, the mainstay in my life while I was growing up. He’d died in a car accident eight years ago, and I missed him every day. How happy he’d be to know that Dylan and I had fallen in love and were planning to get married.

  I parked and stepped out of the car, then gazed around the parking lot, now almost double the size it had been before the renovations. And not a truck or van in sight! The dilapidated building that had once stood next to the library was now the library’s new addition. While the carpentry, plumbing, and electricity work was just about complete, it would be a week or two before all the furniture and equipment we’d ordered arrived and the new rooms were ready to use.

  But the stadium-seating auditorium where I planned to present many wonderful shows, concerts, and performances was holding its first event tomorrow evening. I felt a shiver of excitement as I thought about the commemorative ceremony to celebrate the completion of the new wing and to thank donors for their generous contributions. Mentally, I ran down the list of local dignitaries who would be attending: Mayor Al Tripp; the library board members minus Uncle Bosco; Sally Prescott, our director; every librarian and assistant; and our local representative. There were twelve major contributors, and I knew most of them by sight.

  I’d also invited Marcella and Albert, the Whitehead cousins who had sold us the building. I made a mental note to call Marcella at the Clover Ridge Home for Seniors tomorrow to make sure the two octogenarians were in good health and hadn’t forgotten about the event, which started at seven. I’d offered to hire a driver to chauffeur them to and from the Home, but Marcella informed me they would handle the arrangements themselves.

  I entered the library and released Smoky Joe from his carrier. He immediately scampered off, bushy tail held high, to visit my colleagues. In a few minutes, patrons would start arriving. Most everyone adored him and were eager to give him a snuggle, but a few were allergic to cats or simply didn’t like them. Luckily, Smoky Joe intuitively knew to avoid those people. No doubt, my best friend, Angela Prisco, who worked at the circulation desk, would give him a treat despite the signs I’d posted around the library telling staff and patrons not to feed Smoky Joe anything. Ever.

  I unlocked my office that I shared with my two part-time assistants. Trish Templeton came in at ten or ten thirty on weekdays and stayed for five hours. Short and round, with dark brown hair, Trish was an efficient, hard-working dynamo whom I could count on to carry out any task I set before her.

  Susan Roberts, who came in most afternoons at four or five o’clock, was Trish’s opposite. Slender, her long hair now stylishly cut and brightened with highlights, she still wore a dreamy expression most of the time. When I’d first met Susan, she’d struck me as lackadaisical and without an ounce of initiative in her body. That impression disappeared pronto when I saw into her artistic soul as we prepared for last year’s Halloween party. Susan had proven to be amazingly creative and a brilliant artist. Before long, the library abounded with her paintings and three-dimensional creations. Currently, her artwork was being featured in the Gallery on the Green, a stone’s throw away, around the corner from the library.

  “How is Bosco doing?”

  I looked up, not at all surprised to find Evelyn Havers, my ghostly friend, perched on the corner of my assistants’ desk. Today she wore black slacks and a rose-colored sweater set. Her short gray hair perfectly framed her heart-shaped face, as if she’d just come from a beauty salon. So often I wondered where Evelyn kept her extensive wardrobe and how she managed to sport various hair styles, but these were among the many secrets she kept from me.

  “Improving, so the cardiologist tells us. But he was so very weak last night. And Aunt Harriet’s in bad shape.”

  “His heart attack was a shock to them both. And to you.” Evelyn eyed me shrewdly.

  “I know. I don’t want to lose him.”

  “You probably won’t, at least not for a good long time.”

  I stared at Evelyn. “Do you know something—?”

  Evelyn waved her hand. “I said probably. I’m not a fortune teller, my dear.”

  And with that, she stopped me from questioning her further. I wondered if I’d ever get answers to so many of the questions I had about her life, like where did she go and what did she do when she wasn’t visiting me at the library? Though after Alec had gone to his rightful place, Evelyn had told me she was here to look after the people who lived and spent time in Clover Ridge. Kind of like a guardian angel, I thought. I had to remember that Evelyn didn’t have access to unlimited information. In fact, she hadn’t even known the details of her own death until I discovered what had actually happened to her that night.

  “Actually, I was just about to call the hospital for a report,” I said.

  “Don’t let me keep you,” Evelyn said, and disappeared as suddenly as she’d arrived.

  I called the hospital and got through immediately to the Cardiac Care Unit. A nurse informed me that Uncle Bosco had slept well and had eaten a good breakfast.

  “Wonderful news! Please tell him I’ll stop by this evening,” I said.

  I’d no sooner put down the phone than Aunt Harriet called to tell me that Uncle Bosco looked so much better today.

  “Are you at the hospital now?”

  “Oh yes. I even got to see Dr. Wiesner. He’s very pleased with Bosco’s condition.”

  “Did you manage to sleep last night?”

  “I slept enough,” she said, sounding chipper. “What time is Dylan’s flight to Chicago?”

  “One thirty. The car will be picking him up in an hour. I’m on my own for the next few days.”

  “Like me. I’d invite you to dinner, but I don’t know when I’m going home.”

  “I’m planning to pay Uncle Bosco a visit after work. Why don’t we get a bite together in the hospital café? The food’s pretty good,” I said.

  “A girls’ night out,” Aunt Harriet said. “Kind of, anyway.”

  Relieved that Uncle Bosco’s health was improving, along with Aunt Harriet’s mood, I allowed myself the luxury of telling myself that Uncle Bosco would recover and soon be resuming his life, albeit with some important health-related changes.

  I dropped in on the few library programs in progress—an exercise class, a craft class making Christmas stockings, and a meeting of the history book club—then returned to my office to go through my emails and review the contract forms I’d received from presenters of upcoming programs.

  Dylan texted to say he was on his way to the airport and he’d call me when he landed. Angela texted me to find out how Uncle Bosco was. I texted back that he was doing well, and I’d see her at noon as usual. Trish arrived, bursting to share the latest news about her kids. When she was done, she resumed working on the January–February newsletter.

  And so the day passed. When lunchtime came, Angela and I walked the three blocks to the Cozy Country Café since the day was sunny and not too cold.

  When we returned to the library, Smoky Joe was waiting for me outside my office. I fed him some kibble, and he used his litter box, then set out again to enjoy his never-ending social day.