The Chocolate Book Bandit (2 page)

T
he library board meetings were held at seven o’clock on the second Monday of the month in the meeting room at the library. The October meeting was to be the final one held in the old library. And believe me, “old” was an accurate word for that building.

In fact, the library building was one of the oldest in Warner Pier, and Warner Pier was founded in the 1840s. The structure’s history had been traced in a recent article in the
Warner Pier Weekly Gazette
, and the information was fresh in my mind.

The library was housed in a two-story frame building that originally held a store downstairs and living quarters for the store’s owner upstairs. A man named Andreas Vanderklomp built the building, and generations of Vanderklomps ran the store and lived above it.

But the Vanderklomps had a tradition that was more than commercial. From the earliest days, according to the article, at least one daughter in each generation had become a teacher.

The early-day Miss Vanderklomps had taught in one-room schoolhouses, of course. After Warner Pier opened a high school, the Miss Vanderklomps taught there. Miss Emily Vanderklomp taught mathematics beginning in 1928. And in 1945, the first Miss Ann Vanderklomp had been hired to teach English. In 1975 she had been joined by a niece, another Miss Ann Vanderklomp, who also taught English. For ten years they overlapped, and any confusion was avoided by the use of initials. The older Miss Vanderklomp was N. Ann Vanderklomp, and the younger one—the one who now haunted the library board—was G. Ann Vanderklomp.

Around about 1950, the Vanderklomp store closed. In fact, I think the Miss Vanderklomp Tony had parodied is today the last member of the family living in Warner Pier. And when the store closed, the owners—the brother of Miss N. Ann and the parents of Miss G. Ann—donated the building to the city for use as a library. They also donated the family’s book collection, and when browsing the shelves of the Warner Pier Public Library today it’s still possible to run across a 1944 Book of the Month Club selection with a Vanderklomp bookplate inside the front cover.

Gradually the old building deteriorated. Today the upstairs floor sags, and the whole building needs to be rewired. Just after I moved to Warner Pier four years ago, a bond referendum approved construction of a new library. That building, near Warner Pier High School, was now nearly completed and was scheduled to open in a month. As Lindy had mentioned, the library also had a new director, a man named Henry Cassidy. His nickname, or so I’d read in the
Gazette
, was Butch, and he was forty-two. I hadn’t met him yet.

Like all meetings of city committees, the library board meetings are open to the public unless certain subjects are being discussed, so I didn’t wait for a special invitation. I trailed into the library at about ten to seven on the appointed day. The library closes at seven on Mondays, so the few patrons left were lining up to check out their selections. A plump, middle-aged woman was staffing the front desk—her name plate read
BETTY BLAKE, ASSISTANT LIBRARIAN
—and she stopped checking out books long enough to direct me to the meeting and tell me to feel free to look around.

Following her instructions, I walked a long way down a narrow passage between towering shelves; the library is one of those long, narrow buildings that seem to go on forever. I passed the broad public stairs that lead to the second floor, where the reference and nonfiction sections are. A narrower set of stairs, or so I’d been told, was available at the back of the building. I went past the rolling ladders along the walls, now tied down for safety reasons, and I identified the inconspicuous door—marked
STAFF ONLY
—that led to the workroom. I peeked inside and found a typical cluttered space. Next came another door. Looking inside, I discovered a tiny hall with access to the back door leading to the alley and to the back stairs leading up, as well as to the basement stairs going down.

Near that door was a little room with a beat-up metal table in the middle. A dozen folding chairs with lightly padded seats were lined up along the walls. I’d found the meeting room.

When I entered the tiny room, one person was already there: Dr. Albert Cornwall, a retired history professor I had met a few times. Dr. Cornwall’s friends called him Corny. I called him Dr. Cornwall.

Dr. Cornwall was sitting in the corner, with his chair tipped back against the wall in a pose that looked quite precarious. I was tempted to clap my hands, whistle, or make some other startling noise, to see if he’d fall over. Of course, I resisted that impulse. If Dr. Cornwall fell over, he’d probably break a hip. I guessed his age at early eighties, maybe late eighties.

Dr. Cornwall was dozing. Dr. Cornwall was often dozing these days.

I picked up an agenda from a stack at the end of the meeting table and sat down quietly, since I didn’t want to be the one who disturbed him. I’d barely seated myself when we were joined by Rhonda Ringer-Riley, the board chair. Mrs. Ringer-Riley was sixtyish, with blond hair in one of the tones considered suitable for older ladies. She wore a coordinated sportswear outfit, and she carried a large flowered tote bag.

Rhonda, I knew, was a local. As a resort town, Warner Pier has three classes of society: tourists, summer people, and locals. Locals, like Rhonda and me, live here year-round; tourists stay only a few days, and summer people own or lease property and spend longer periods of time here, but vote elsewhere. Dr. Cornwall represented a new and growing class—summer people who have retired to Warner Pier. They’re not quite local; it takes several winters before they move beyond their summer-resident status. But they’re becoming a force in the town.

Rhonda had inherited a half dozen lakeshore tourist cottages, and she and her husband rented them out each summer, so they were part of the Warner Pier business community. Their cottages and their home were about a mile from where Joe and I lived, south along the shore of Lake Michigan.

“Oh, hi, Lee,” she said. “I heard that you’re to replace Abigail on the board.”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“You should take the job. There’s nothing to it but one meeting a month.”

“I would have thought you’d have been quite busy for the past year, what with the planning and construction of the new building.”

“The director—the former director, Catherine Smith—took care of nearly everything. We’re a rubber-stamp body, I’m afraid.” Was her tone a bit on the dry side? Or was that my imagination?

Rhonda sat down and produced a notebook and pen from her tote bag. She laid these on the table; then she took out a large piece of knitting.

Before I could question her about the board, a tall, slender young woman came in. She had long brown hair and carried a baby in a sling. At the door to the room she turned back and spoke firmly. “Geraldine, you’re to keep an eye on Hal. Stay strictly in the children’s section. Any problems, come and get me.”

I recognized her, too. Gwen Swain. She was the wife of an engineer who worked at a power plant south of us. Lindy called her the Earth Mother. I knew from Lindy that Gwen homeschooled her oldest child and had been known to nurse her baby while browsing the produce at the Superette. For the moment the baby was napping.

Gwen gave me a vigorous handshake and sat down next to Dr. Cornwall.

Hard on her heels, Carol Turley stomped in with her usual awkward gait. She carried a fancy red leather folder, a sort of miniature briefcase.

Gwen spoke to her. “Oh, hi, Carol. Is that the case you were telling me about?”

“Yes,” she said, and smiled a rather nervous smile. But she blinked her eyes so rapidly I thought she was trying not to cry. “Yes, Brian gave it to me last week. For my birthday.”

“That was a sweet thing to do,” Gwen said.

Carol blinked harder. “Yes, my husband really is a sweetie.”

Maybe so, I thought, but he’s not real romantic. I mean, a leather folder isn’t a diamond ring or even a dozen roses. But I guess it was something Carol would use all the time.

Carol dropped the folder on the table, and it made quite a thud. Dr. Cornwall jumped and opened his eyes. Luckily, his chair did not go over.

Carol was the kind of person who is never noticed in a crowd. She was about my age and short, with dull blond hair. But I couldn’t call Carol plain; her big brown eyes were too expressive. She shut them tightly, then popped them open. After taking a deep breath, she spoke to me. Her voice had its usual whine. “I see you’ve decided to join us.”

“Actually, this is an exploratory visit,” I said.

“Well, there’s nothing to it,” Carol said. She twisted her hands together nervously. “Between the library director and the city engineer we have strong guidance. There’s never any question of how to vote.”

“But you’re getting a new library director,” I said. “He may expect more participation from the board.”

“Why?” Now Carol’s voice was not only loud, but also incredulous. “We just stand back and stay out of the way. Unless he pulls some dumb stunt.”

“And I’ll try not to do that.”

A bass voice sounded from the doorway, and we all turned to look at a person who was designed by nature to be called Butch. He was tall—maybe six-three—and rough-hewn, with a large, blocky build, and a friendly grin. But the most eye-catching thing about him was a gorgeous streak of gray at each temple. He looked like an ad for men’s hair color. If I owned such a company I would have made him our official spokesman on the spot.

“I’m sure you’ve all figured out that I’m Butch Cassidy,” he said. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me who you are.”

He walked around the table and shook hands with each of us.

I was the final person he greeted, so I had a minute to take him in.

Sexy. He was sexy. My innards noticed that right away.

By the time he reached my side of the table, “sexy” was definitely the word I’d picked to describe him. It wasn’t that he was particularly handsome; Joe was a lot better-looking. Butch just seemed to broadcast sex appeal.

All the women seemed to grow more feminine as he spoke to them. The prim Rhonda Ringer-Riley almost simpered. Gwen looked more Earth Motherish. Carol Turley even managed not to say anything else rude. “I’m Carol Turley,” she said. “I’m secretary-treasurer.” Then she sat down abruptly, almost missing her chair.

But the stupid comment was left for me. I extended my hand to the new director and said, “I’m Lee McKinney. I mean, Woodwind. I mean, Woodyard. Lee Woodyard. And I’m not a member of the body. Board.”

I quit then. I had completely messed up, and I had the sense to know things might get even worse. I’m famous for my twisted tongue, but I’d outdone myself.

Rhonda looked pained, and Carol Turley giggled. “Well, who are you, Lee?” She giggled again.

Butch—I was already thinking of him by that name—ignored Carol. “Guests are always welcome,” he said. He sat down next to Rhonda. “We seem to have a quorum, Mrs. Ringer-Riley. Shall we start?”

Rhonda looked surprised. “Oh. But Miss Vanderklomp isn’t here yet.”

Butch consulted a paper. “Vanderklomp? Is she a member of the board?”

“No. No, she’s an honorary member. She always attends. It seems—well, rude to start without her.”

Butch frowned.

“And she’s here!”

Miss Vanderklomp shot into the room as if she’d been propelled by a cannon. “Late, as usual!” Her voice was close to a shout, and, yes, it managed to be both nasal and very deep. She was tall, nearly as tall as I am, and I’m close to six feet. Her build was husky, and her silver-gray hair was cropped into a thick Dutch bob that stuck out over each ear. She dropped several file folders and a plastic water bottle onto the table. She plunked herself into a folding chair with such force I expected the chair to collapse. She reached inside her blouse—first the right shoulder, then the left—and adjusted her bra straps. Then she took a drink from her water bottle. It was the opaque kind of plastic, so you couldn’t see the color of its contents. It could well have held Pepsi, just as Tony had claimed.

“Sorry for my dilatory habits,” she boomed.

I was staring openmouthed. Tony’s parody of her had been unbelievably accurate. For the first time I fully appreciated his humor.

But nobody on the library board laughed.

Instead, Gwen spoke quietly. “Abigail Montgomery isn’t here either.”

“She’s in the building,” Rhonda said. “I saw her when I came in. She’ll be along. Let the meeting come to order.”

Apparently no one was concerned about waiting for Abigail, even though Abigail, unlike Miss Vanderklomp, was an official member of the board. In fact, she was the person I had been invited to replace. That seemed rather odd.

The meeting went on. Abigail didn’t appear. No one seemed to notice.

The business seemed routine. Minutes, various committees. There was a simple financial report from Butch Cassidy. This made me ask about Carol’s duties as secretary-treasurer, and Carol explained that the title “treasurer” simply indicated she chaired the financial committee. A library staff member kept any financial records, passing them on to the city treasurer.