“So you had no idea why you were at the batting cages?”
Officer Wason asks gruffly, holding the paper inches from my nose.
“I’ve never seen this before.”
My name has been splashed across the page in Larry’s tight
script. The question mark that follows leaves me with questions as I scan the
paragraph next to it.
“Maybe he wanted to purchase the batting cages. He may have wanted
me to research the figures quoted there.”
Officer Wason raises an eyebrow and looks back to the paper.
“Shouldn’t he have an accountant do that?”
“An accountant would charge him. I have a bachelor’s degree
in business management, so he sometimes asked me questions to save money.”
“The plaque on the door says he was a department head?”
“Even department heads aren’t exactly rolling in money in a
small library like this.” I gesture to the chipped paint on the file cabinet
and the wear marks on the carpet.
Officer Wason shakes his head. “You aren’t telling us
something…”
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
Officer Polsen steps forward to place a hand on his
partner’s arm. “How about we let Miss Holden get back to work?”
“Yes. I should do that.” I agree turning toward the door.
Officer Wason opens his mouth to speak but quickly closes
his lips around whatever question still burns inside him as his partner speaks
again. “I’m sure she’ll call us if she thinks of anything that can be of use to
us.”
“Yes, sir…sirs?” I feel my face flush as I look for the
right word.
As they exchange another look, I step backward out the door.
I pause for a moment just outside the door, but they don’t speak to each other.
I hear another drawer slowly slide open as I reluctantly walk away.
I glance down each aisle as I follow the familiar route back
to my desk. I don’t catch sight of the man in the ball cap, but the
disconcerting feeling of being watched haunts me. I glance over my shoulder so
many times that my neck aches. I rub it gently as I sit down at my desk and
lose myself in my work.
*
I don’t see the officers again even though I make a few book
deliveries to the shelves outside Larry’s office. When I drop off my third
batch of books, a closed door greets me. I spend the rest of the day working
through one pile after another. I don’t bother looking up when my mail arrives.
I don’t even glance at it. I remain equally uninterested when a coworker drops
off another pile of books, repopulating the one clean surface on my desk. She
lingers for a while, wanting to gossip, but I pretend not to notice her until
she trudges away.
When the sound of the door at the far end of the room assures
me of her retreat, I turn away from the string of words on my computer screen.
Most of the books in the pile are the same vivid orange, rebound for maximum
attention grabbing, but one stands out with its pale brown cover.
I reach for the book. A chill flows across my hand. I draw
my hand back, looking up at the ceiling.
“That’s odd.” I observe to myself as I note that the nearest
vent doesn’t circulate air into my cubicle.
I reach for the book again. This time my hand connects with
the book before the chill washes over me. I pause but don’t release the book. I
pull it free from the others. As I begin to turn away, an interdepartmental
mailer slips out of the horizontal file I use as a mailbox.
Grabbing it with my free hand, I start to place it back in
the file. The bold handwriting on the last filled rectangle gives me pause. I
place the book back on the top of its stack and gently undo the string holding
the envelope closed.
A thin pile of printed documents slides out into my hand. Neat
handwriting flows across a sheet torn from a yellow, legal paper, clipped to these
pages. My eyes swallow the neatly scripted words as blood floods to my face and
ears.
Theresa,
If you are reading this, something terrible has happened to me. I apologize for the cliché. I never wanted to be one of those. I actually wanted to be a journalist, but I never found anything to write about. Somehow I ended up just another shadow in the background of the library.
Then my research of local baseball clubs revealed a story that my journalistic side couldn’t resist. I wanted you to check out a few of these documents for me since you have a background in accounting, but I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me.
You’re supposed to meet me at the batting cages in the morning. I want you to meet me. Hopefully, I can prove that I haven’t suddenly developed paranoia.
If I don’t get to see you, please be careful. I don’t think they know that I am onto their scheme, but I can’t be sure.
See you on our shared byline,
Larry
I flip through the printed pages. I quickly find the
discrepancies between assets, earnings, and posted profits, but Larry
gave me too much credit. I have no idea what it means.
Shaking my head, I dial the number that the policemen left
for me. No one answers, so I leave a message and tuck the envelope into the
back of my desk drawer until I can show the contents to them.
I am the last person to leave my department. Only a few people remain to answer questions at the reference desk and check out books at the front desk. I wave to both of them and hurry to my car as the feeling of being watched brings goose bumps crawling up my arms again.
There you have it, my friends, another step closer to some answers. Hopefully, I am weaving all the elements of this story together in the best possible way. I have a couple things going on here that I still need to completely decide the future of. What do you think?
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is she a sexy librarian?
ReplyDeleteIt's not that kind of story ;)
ReplyDelete