Not Quite Dead (A Lowcountry Mystery)

Chapter Seven

I manage to make it to the library without being accosted by any more confrontational women. My heart feels buoyant, almost as though it's in one piece, after my unexpected coffee with Mel. Things are different, for sure—she's a mom, for heaven's sake—but maybe different doesn't have to mean dead and gone.

The woman at the desk, whose name I've forgotten, glowers as though I stomped a kitten to death and splattered the entrails all over the glass windows on my way inside. She obviously has a problem with me, though what it is, I haven't the slightest idea.

But being intimidated by grouchy grandmothers—or anyone, really—isn't my thing. "Hi, my name's Graciela Harper, we met yesterday. Mr. Freedman hired me to be the new assistant librarian."

"Mr. Freedman ain't here, but he said I'll be in charge of training you up." She sneers at me, her trace of an accent still eluding me. "Says you're some kind of big-shot smarty-pants, so you'd better not take up too much of my time."

"I don't know if I'm a big s—"

"Follow me, please."

She tours me around the library, reminding me twice that I may call her Mrs. LaBadie and nothing else. There's a scent in her wake, not offensive like the ghost's, but strange. Spicy and earthy. Smoky. It trails behind her, finding its way up my nose during the brief walk-through. The building isn't big, and the sections are organized in a familiar enough way. I bite my tongue while she drones on about reshelving, barely managing to fight off the desire to inform her that understanding the fucking Dewey decimal system isn't rocket science, and also that there are inventions called computers that are well on their way to replacing it in the rest of the known world. After her thrilling explanations of the coffeepot, break room, and cleaning supplies, she leaves me with a cart full of books to shelve.

Based on the number of people that live in the town versus the number of books on the cart, she either hasn't done any reshelving since June What's-Her-Name left for Savannah or she pulled these just for me.

"Where are the archives? Mr. Freedman said there are local history documents here."

"No need to worry about that. We keep 'em locked up unless there's a special request, and that room's my responsibility. Won't be needin' your help."

With that, she stomps back to the front desk, leaving me to wonder how big a bug flew up her ass and how long it's been there. Before long, the books nestle back in their rightful places, my sense of accomplishment at the completion of the small task giving me a strange, simple kind of pleasure. Mrs. LaBadie catches me wandering a few minutes later, trailing my fingers over random embossed titles, and hands me a feather duster.

"Is the kid's reading time thing today?"

"Baby Book Club?"

"Okay."

"Yes. It's at two, and you're in charge. Try not to negatively influence any youth."

I can't help rolling my eyes. Luckily, she's already turned her back. Again.

Lunchtime rolls around before all of the dust falls prey to my ministrations. My stomach keeps growling and since not a single patron entered during the morning hours, the sound echoes off the empty walls. There's a deli down the block, and I even make another attempt at friendship with an offer to bring something back for Mrs. LaBadie. She ignores me altogether this time.

Even though the temperature outside has risen to approximately ten degrees hotter than hell, the air smells fresh compared to the musty dust bunnies lodged in my nose.

"On your way to lunch?"

The voice startles me out of my head, and my trademark grace tangles my feet. The only reason my ass doesn't find the pavement again is the strong pair of hands that catch me around the waist. I look up, ready to stammer thanks through my embarrassment, to find Beau's laughing hazel eyes.