The Unkindness of Ravens, M. Hilliard [romantic books to read txt] 📗

director dead bodies wouldn’t turn up in the library, and if the police were more competent, dead bodies turning up in the library would be dealt with efficiently and our patrons wouldn’t be inconvenienced.”

I was relieved she hadn’t included, “and lunching librarians who find bodies should be suspended without pay until cleared of all wrongdoing.” But that could still happen.

“Ah,” I said, “that sounds very much in character.” Anita Hunzeker chaired the board of trustees. She was petite, so thin she seemed pointy, with an excruciatingly exact haircut. She was never without her signature accessory—a colorful scarf. No matter the weather or activity, the casually draped scarf never moved. It wouldn’t dare. Anita had all the people skills of a rabid wombat and was often referred to as “Attila-the-Hunzeker” by the staff.

“Well, she’s looking at it from a liability standpoint, not to mention PR. This isn’t good no matter what the cause, and she’s determined to get a new library building.”

“True.” Sudden, unexplained death wasn’t going to increase public confidence in the library or its board. Murder even less so. Anita was determined that her legacy to the town would be a brand new state-of-the-art, high-tech library building. She was correct that we needed a new building, but there were many village residents who were quite attached to the old manor and who were willing to fight tooth and nail to keep things the way they were. Chief among these was Millicent Ames. The hostility between the two women was palpable. If it had been Anita at the bottom of the stairs I would have known exactly where to look for answers.

“Well,” I said, “is there anything you’d like me to do?”

“Go home and get some rest. I’m sending everyone home as soon as they’re done with the police. I’ll call you once I know what’s going on. I need to talk to Sam O’Donnell before I make any plans.”

I left Helene, secure in the knowledge that my boss didn’t think I was a killer and my job was safe, at least for now. Not only did I not want to be a murder suspect, I needed the paycheck. Danny had been working for a start-up when he died and didn’t have life insurance. I’d sold our apartment for enough to pay for grad school and maintain a small emergency fund, but that was it. I didn’t live an extravagant lifestyle, but any loss of income, even a brief “administrative leave,” would be a problem.

I took a circuitous route back to the library offices, curious as to what the police were doing and where, confident I would hear them before they spotted me. The force was small, and the manor was big. The main floor was quiet. A uniformed officer stood outside the front door with his back to me. The small vestibule was empty, the interior fire doors propped open. Sounds of footsteps and muffled voices drifted down the main staircase. The reading room was strewn from one end to the other with items abandoned when the building was evacuated. Everything was turned off. No sign of police activity, the action was confined to the upper floors.

Nothing to see here, folks.

This morning the main hall was bright and bustling with activity. Now it was dim and hushed, the only illumination provided by jagged shards of light stabbing through the leaded glass window above the front door. I padded down the hall, my reflection moving beneath the rippled surface of the antique mirrors that lined the walls, interspersed with portraits of Ravenscroft ancestors, whose disapproving gazes followed my progress.

My desk was piled with books, copies of Publisher’s Weekly, catalogs of upcoming releases, and files. I’d barely been at my desk in the last two days, yet the mess had somehow grown. My organized chaos was disordered. Had the police been through it? No. I was pretty sure they’d need a warrant, even if it was library property. I eyed my jacket and bag. Everything I’d brought today was where I had left it that morning. But things on my desk were not where I’d left them last night. The changes wouldn’t be noticeable to anyone but me, but a couple of piles had shifted.

Someone probably just needed to borrow a stapler or something, I thought. I’m overreacting. But my sense of unease grew. Feeling all of eleven years old, I placed some innocuous items—paper clips, a red pen, a bookmark—in places where they’d be moved if someone went through my desk. Then I gathered my belongings and left.

My short trip home was uneventful, but that didn’t stop me from looking in my rearview mirror at frequent intervals. By the time I got home, the adrenaline that had fueled me since finding Joanna’s body had run out. I changed my clothes and stretched out on the couch, telling myself it was just for a few minutes.

Three hours later I woke up with a scream, heart pounding, gasping for air. It must have only been a dream scream, or my landlord’s Frenchie, Pierre would be barking. I sat up, still a little disoriented.

The dream was always the same, but today there was a variation. I was in my apartment in New York, standing over Danny. I had the phone in my hand, our old-fashioned landline that we never got rid of, but I couldn’t get a dial tone. My cell was in my tote bag, by the door where I dropped it. I couldn’t get it because someone was outside the door, just out of sight, waiting for me to come close enough to grab. That’s when I usually woke up.

Today’s dream went further. I looked around and saw Joanna sitting at my desk with her back to me. I knew she would help if I could only get her attention. But no matter what I did she wouldn’t respond. I couldn’t move my feet. I couldn’t move at all. I finally tried to scream her name, and woke myself.

I got up